JULY 26 IN 3 PARTS – Reality/ Fiction/ Reality

Considering July 26 as just another day of our lives and just another date on the calendar is the most convenient way to move ahead.

If at all you plan to get emotionally involved with this day, you will recount two events in particular – 1) The Kargil War of 1999 and 2) The Mumbai deluge of 2005. Being an observant, I will not only recount those two events but, I will remember them and imagine a story to be inserted between the two events. This story is a work of fiction and takes place in the year 2011. The date remains unchanged - JULY 26.

Interestingly the Kargil war, the Mumbai deluge and the fiction are separated from each other by a span of six years.

The first story unfolds accordingly:

July 26: Part 1/ Reality – The Kargil War, 1999

I don’t think it is that easy to allow the memories of Kargil war to fade out. I can’t. Neither will the families of those soldiers who sacrificed their lives. As citizens we shouldn’t. As humans we wouldn’t. The Kargil war showed the ugly face of a neighbor. The war revealed the atrocities of an intruder. The war made us realize about our vulnerability to terrorism. One image that never fails to evoke tears is that of Captain Vikram Batra. A day before or so, he was being interviewed by a television journalist and asked to share his views on enemy attacks. He had bravely remarked with a cola brand’s punch line – Yeh Dil Maange More (This Heart Desires More). The next day (if I am not mistaken), he was shot dead by intruders. His remark was played repeatedly on all the news channels. He became legendary. Tears rolled out of my eyes and I was filled with anger. Every day a new casualty was reported from the battlefield. Yet somewhere, the heart prompted that we will succeed to overpower the enemy. July 26, 1999 is the day when our brave Indian soldiers succeeded in completely evicting Kargil of the intruders. Since then we have been proudly celebrating this day as Vijay Diwas (Victory Day). 

July 26: Part 2/ Fiction – The Lovelock, 2011

She knew this wasn’t the life she had asked for. Her marriage had hit a roadblock. A child was dependent on her. The dilemma that she was facing right now was that of making a choice. The constant traveler that she was, the late traveler that she was, little did she know that he too was travelling alongside every day. Her demanding job left her exhausted. But she found solace in long journeys. She had developed a habit of boarding a train and traveling as far as the local train would take her to. But she set a condition for herself. She had to come back home; to her son and her mother who shared a modest apartment with her. Married for as long as five years, her husband chose to work abroad, stay abroad and never invite her abroad. She delivered their first child in his absence. The only communication channel they shared were handful of phone calls, some abusive messages and emails written in threatening tone. The marriage was on the verge of collapse. She continued to save it by doing her bit. Thus she was happy being this constant traveler. She had no idea about having won the attention of a fellow traveler who followed her through these journeys. It would take her three months to realize that someone could be stalking her. On confronting, he revealed that her eyes had never left his mind for a day. On probing as to where he might have spotted her, he replied that he had always seen her boarding one or the other train and kept observing her. She sensed this being a different phenomenon. The fellow traveler had become her obsession from the day she confronted him. She felt silly of not having even asked for his name. After a month or so, they revealed their names to each other. She found it funny. He found it remarkable. They started traveling together, exploring new places. He had stories to be shared. She had her own share of woes to be shared. On a rainy day when they were stuck at one of the stations of Mumbai’s harbor line, he took her hands in his and stared deep into her eyes. Sensing too much intimacy she revealed, she was married. He kept staring at her, uttered no word and neither allowed her to release her hand from his. After a late night’s journey, he followed her home. Throughout the journey, she had rested her head on his shoulder and poured her heart out to him. When the journey ended, he had announced his love to her. It was the month of July. The rains had swelled. The puddles had thickened. Standing beneath her apartment, he expressed his desire to follow her upstairs. She didn’t expect this from him. He was persistent. On opening the door, her mother was reluctant to allow a stranger walk into their home. She had kept the apartment secluded from probing relatives. He saw her son playing around. Gently he took him in his arms, kissed the little one’s forehead and put him to sleep. Turning towards her mother, he touched her feet, sought her blessings and rose to leave. She pleaded with him to stay back. Her mother couldn’t understand the series of events that were unfolding at such a late hour. He stepped out of their apartment and started climbing down the slippery staircase. He lost his balance, banged his head against the wall, started bleeding and collapsed. The next morning he woke up with immense pain in his head. The first aid had worked but she was keen to take him to the doctor. Her mother had reservations. She took her aside and started speaking to her in whispers. He managed to leave the bed, went closer and bravely announced that he loved her. She couldn’t believe it. Her son was too young to realize that some change was occurring in his mother’s life. But her mother had her reservations. She didn’t want her to divorce her husband and settle down for a second marriage with a child in her lap. On the other hand, he started making preparations to fight against the world and bring her home as his newly wedded wife with a child in her arms. They started traveling more and during one such journey her mobile rang. Her husband was calling to apologize. On reaching home, she didn’t answer any of his calls. All his messages to her yielded no reply. After a week’s time, his phone rang. Though upset, he couldn’t resist answering the call. She expressed her desire to meet. They boarded the train at Churchgate and chose to travel till the farthest limit of Virar. During this journey she revealed to him that within two weeks’ time, she was planning to join her husband abroad. He was left heartbroken. Throughout the night, he tried many a times to hurt himself. Thoughts of suicide showed no signs of being shy. But he lived. The next morning he woke up to a series of messages from her. He remembered the last three words of her first message – I seek freedom. When they met, she expressed her desire to spend a day with him, away from the city, away from those journeys. He sensed the end of this relationship being closer. Stealing a day out of their schedules, they traveled to a village of fishermen. A few kilometers deep in the heart of the village stood a resort. From this resort, the sea looked like a beautiful portrait of thousand emotions and the rowing boats created a vibrant spectacle. She opened the windows of the cottage he had rented to spend the day with her. She allowed the breeze to brush against her skin. The saline aroma of the village left her feeling intoxicated with love. Bolting the door behind her, she locked her lips with his. As he tightened his grip on her body, tears rolled down her eyes. They surrendered to each other and remained locked in the cottage till midnight. The next morning even though they had woken up tangled into each other, he couldn’t accept the fact of her departing. He pressed her for reasons. She maintained a stoic silence. After a while, she freshened up and pulled out a gold chain from her purse. She requested him to put the same around her neck. They left the cottage, traveled to the nearby station and boarded the train, which would take her back home. During the journey, she said nothing. Once they reached the destination, she alighted and stopped him from following her. She moved a little ahead but returned to hug him. He found the hug to be intimate and painful. She kissed him again and before turning to leave home, she told him – All the time that we were locked in there; I couldn’t tell you as to why I took this step. My husband needs me more than ever. My son needs his father like never before. Above all, my mother won’t allow this marriage to end.

Before he could react, she had left. A year passed by. He was in one of those journeys when the tone of a message caught his attention. The message read – Remember. Today is July 26. Same time last year, we had locked ourselves in that little cottage of love.

He read it twice, alighted from the train, hailed for an auto and made his way to the same cottage. He bolted the doors, opened the windows, placed the cake on a table and messaged her – Between memories of you and me, we exist. July 26, our love lock!

July 26: Part 3/ Reality – The Mumbai Deluge, 2005

I was working with a Thane based corporate communication agency. At around 10 AM, I had offered prayers at the Mahalaxmi temple and proceeded to meet my client in an adjacent corporate center. The office seemed abandoned. The receptionist had arrived late. She was drenched. The client, I was supposed to meet was busy making phone calls. All appointments have been cancelled. An international webcast was put on hold. Phone lines had started going dead. I was flipping through various magazines, which lay scattered on the table. My eyes were about to fall on an important news item, when the cable power was cut off. On seeing me, she was surprised! She didn’t waste any time. She started running her fingers through the dummy copy of a magazine, which we were supposed to proof check. After an hour or so, she stared out the window, turned towards me and advised that I should leave early. I assured her of things being normal. But she insisted that I should try getting back home as early as possible because my mother could be alone; she might need my help too. The last few words left me worried. I realized something was really wrong. Was it a riot, bomb blast or some unforeseen tragedy? I stepped out of the building. Before I could hail for a taxi, a black & yellow fiat stopped in front of me. The driver shouted that I should hop in immediately before the city sinks. His words left me feeling sick with worry. On probing further, he sped across the roads, dropped me at Byculla station and before pulling out he cautioned – Get home soon sir, the city is sinking. I had read in many books that Mumbai was a group of islands and many of its actual terrain were reclaimed from the Arabian Sea. It felt like the seas were outraged and were now avenging the reclamation. The platforms wore an abandoned look. College students were huddling together to board that one train, which was supposed to be the last train back to Thane. I boarded alongside. One of the girls, standing adjacent to me, asked me from below her veil, if the train can make it till Thane. I thought she was insane. On reaching Thane, I alighted and rushed to board the bus to my office. On reaching, I realized my office was sinking. I couldn’t understand what was wrong. The rains had swelled. Before we knew it, water started gushing in from the drains of our bathroom. We locked the office and escaped. I had to swim through shoulder high waters. In an hour’s time, our peon spotted the corpse of an animal floating across. Someone then screamed that due to a cloudburst, Mumbai was experiencing he worst ever flood in its long history of other major and minor calamities. My first priority now was to reach home. My mom was alone. It took me two hours to return home, which otherwise was not even 30 minutes away from each other. Luckily our home was at a certain height. The waters hadn’t reached there. My mother and I spent the next few days together at home. My office colleagues joined in after 48 hours. They stayed with us because their homes were lying submerged beneath 7 ft of water. It took days for the water to recede. Rumors of an epidemic started doing the rounds. The worst scene that I could recollect was that of the two wheeler parking lot near the railway station. None of the bikes had left the parking space. All of them stood submerged beneath 5 ft of stinking rain waters. Having survived that day, even today I live that moment every year remembering the calamity, which was so not called for.

-Virtuous Vociferous

WAR ISN’T EASY

On a lazy morning, we went in search of food, water; we found nothing and wandered endlessly.

Through those narrow lanes, we walked being clueless.

Just then the skies brought on us a different kind of rain. This rain was not of water but of few handbills, which made us realize that the enemy was coming for us.

But before we could think of it, gunshots went off. Life was in the grip of death.

The ocean swelled, ships drowned and strewn bodies painted a portrait of utter failure.

Isn’t it clear by now, war isn’t really easy.

The pilots put their lives at risk.

They chased the enemies in the blue skies. They flew furiously. Some so down; we thought they will come crashing on us.

War isn’t easy.

The constantly ticking sound is not that of a time bomb hidden somewhere. But it’s our mind ticking maybe. Or is it the heart that is beating abnormally. It’s war. The war isn’t allowing us to go home.

Help, help, help, we wish to shout. But there is no one to heed to those shouts.

Bombs, missiles, grenades, guns, blankets, uniforms, bullets, lifejackets; we have so much to run in our favor. But the war isn’t growing easy.

Oil from the destroyed ships has now slowly started corrupting the sea waters.

To hell with that coward who reacted so violently that a seafarer’s associate stumbled down the yacht’s deck and died.

They are taking turns to evacuate us from this place; including the wounded and ignoring the dearest dead.

Finally when we got to go home, we were applauded.

We fought at DUNKIRK.

Don’t you know? DUNKIRK is in news again.

My favorite director Nolan has hit the bull’s eye.  I think, DUNKIRK will help me develop new kind of love for war based movies.

Hats off to the vision, the sound effects and the realistic war scenes; my feelings are still with DUNKIRK.

-Virtuous Vociferous

TREK #1 09072017 Stage 3

The descent was to begin at 2 pm. The size of the team had contracted. From 20 or 25 maybe, we were down to 10. Sharanya dared all odds to be a part of the descending team (one woman alongside 9 men). But what’s the big deal. On first count of Krishna’s signal to descend, Sharanya had proceeded. I was sure that the descent was going to be a little ‘Ahm Uhm Mmm’ of an affair. Did I tell you that I have always been afraid of heights? Well, if I haven’t then its fine. The trek helped me overcome the fear.

Rains had not left us. We hadn’t left the rains either. Some preferred to get wet while I preferred to wear the new jacket. But during the descent, I did away with the jacket too. Sharanya had left us nine men far behind. As Ravi called out to her – Nari Shakti; it literally seemed like she was possessed by an enviable energy. I slipped many a times, others too slipped. But none of us fell or suffered injuries. If I had to single out Sharanya; she rose to the occasion by descending faster than all of us.

Did we take breaks during the descent too? Yes we did! During this breaks, we broke into sudden laughter. We struck some interesting conversations. Even though we were trekking down through the same route, everything seemed new.

Krishna and Ravi kept narrating us stories from their other treks. All of their stories were indicating at one truth – Treks are an experience to be enjoyed repeatedly.

The sudden onset of rains had turned the mountains into a magical object of affection. As we continued to descend, I kept looking back at the 1200 ft magnanimous reality. I had tamed it. Wow, I had tamed it just like others had.

We surely missed our fellow trekkers. But we enjoyed the company of the handful few. During the journey back to the village, Sharanya shared an interesting desire, which resonated with my interests too. She remarked, “All these paths lead us somewhere or the other. It would have been so amazing to have explored each of them!”

Once we were back at the village, we left no chance to treat ourselves to freshly served snacks of Vada Pav, Pakodas and of course tiny cups of tea. None of the mobile phones were spared to click hefty selfie of the mighty us. We had lived the moment. We had trekked. I had trekked.

As I write this piece today, let me tell you, the trek hadn’t left me for four days in a row. I was in pain. Every aching muscle reminded me of the fact that I had scaled well on my first trek. The pain subsided only by Thursday evening. Once it subsided, I made peace with myself. I patted my own back. I reminded myself of having conquered the fear of heights. Before I could complete writing this experience, I am already browsing through the list of upcoming treks.

Thank you Dark Green Adventures for gifting this experience. A big thank you to the new friends, I met. We might not keep in touch regularly. Our conversations might keep thinning out. But the possibility of bumping into each other will always stay alive.

So, till we TREK AGAIN, I wish to conclude by saying – Every step we take together is a movement. Every step we take alone adds strength to that movement.

 -Virtuous Vociferous

TREK #1 09072017 Stage 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Virtuous Vociferous

TREK #1 09072017 Stage 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coming Soon - TREK #1 09072017 Stage 2

-Virtuous Vociferous 

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

WHERE DO THE STORIES BEGIN FROM?

It’s the mid of June.

The monsoons should have been here by now.

As my skin bears the brunt of the sun, I gasp for breath.

On certain occasions, I’ve tried experimenting during nights.

I tried keeping the windows of my bedroom open to the skies.

All the experiments seem to have failed miserably.

I haven’t given up yet. I am planning to experiment again.

This time, I am going to extract the umbrella from my bag and deliberately leave it unattended at home.

I am sure when the skies see me walk boisterously without the umbrella in tow; they will open up and release the fluid energy of monsoons to set me free, my city free and its citizens free. I hope the skies will open up for the entire nation and for every Indian. 

Are the monsoons also capable of assuring peace? Or can they postpone the insurgencies, we are faced with recently?

Darjeeling is burning. Kashmir is mourning. Our hearts are bleeding.

We are in need of an experiment again. Will monsoon be that experiment? If it turns out to be successful, we will have our own Ooh la la moment. If the experiment fails, we will still celebrate because that is where I sense the beginning of a story.

Thus the title, which is also a question - WHERE DO THE STORIES BEGIN FROM?

Each one of us has a story. We are humans, we are stories. When we set out to trace the beginning of our stories, we are confronted with a mother’s womb. It’s in there, our mothers proclaim. They add, “It is in here, in the womb, where the stories begin from?”

To disagree on this account is definitely human.

Just last week, I had least expected an angle from where my story began.

Take for instance the title - Biryani is an emotion.

I was blown over by the title. As I kept appreciating the line and its beautiful layout, I could also sense the beginning of stories.

The line, the title of Biryani is an emotion is bravely finds a mention in a cute little diary which was gifted over to me by my Cyan Buddy.

She was a little reluctant to gift me the diary. She mentioned, it was supposed to be my farewell gift (now that’s a different story to begin with). But somehow, the delivery got delayed. She had to reverse the decision and present it to me as my welcome gift (this would be the sequel to the different story, which I might begin with later).

A mere gift, a short pocket diary that it is could have evolved into nothing new until I decided to turn the diary into a chronicler. This diary will hold stories of my food expeditions. Every time, I end up loving a certain cuisine or am simply left speechless by a moment, which involves food, I will write about it in the diary. In the same diary, which carries that lovely title of – Biryani is an emotion.

I think I have found a story to begin with. The beginning would materialize when I start flaunting the diary and the little pieces of delicious surprises; I wish to write within!

But this is one part of the many stories, which begin from nowhere and find their way somewhere.

Imaginations form the other part about these stories, which also fuel their evolution. The choice rests with the storyteller; either to narrate them in a fictional format or try to fit them in that long beaten genre of nonfiction.

How do these imaginations start taking the shape of a story? I don’t think there would be a definitive reply to that.

For me, my imaginations could run wild and keep fluctuating between the mole, the nose ring and a tattoo somewhere. But how much time will they take to translate into stories! Only time will tell. At least I can rest assured that my story can be expected of having a beginning.

As I grow a word closer to conclude this blog post, I can hear that distinct sound of raindrops.

Seated by the partly open window, I can see the earth relish the momentary magic of rains.

Only I wish, the showers could have lasted longer. But nature has some other plans.

Till the time those plans materialize, I am happy to realize – my story has found a beginning. If your stories haven’t found one yet, ask yourself the same question, “Where do the stories begin from?”

-Virtuous Vociferous

IN THE SORRY STATE OF AMAZON.COM

Book lovers aren’t fools!

I being a book lover am not a fool for sure.

For years that I’ve been addicted to reading and writing as well, books have been a way of life.

So far so good, life was dreamlike in the company of good books, great authors and gigantic publishers until the Amazon.Com mishap occurred. I was indeed left feeling like a fool!

Since I was ordering Rishi Kapoor’s Autobiography, an option showed up mentioning that customers were also interested in buying Karan Johar’s Autobiography. To me, this seemed like a great combination. Even though Karan Johar’s book was announced to be a paperback, I had very little to grow concerned about. I sealed the deal and eagerly awaited the arrival of both books.

Both books arrived as per the conveyed schedule. But the big surprise was yet to be opened. On unsealing the package, which held Karan Johar’s Autobiography, I was left miffed. Even though it was a paperback, it wasn’t an original copy. The book looked as bad as one of those counterfeits, which are sold across innumerable traffic signals.

The compressed photograph on the top

The elements, which accompanied the book, were not trustworthy.

A handwritten note - Have a Good Read!! J , stamped by the dealer who had sent me across the book. His massive signature provided the much unrequited tease.

The handwritten note by the sender

Talking about the book, the cover looked dull. The author or the subject matter’s photographs were stretched, compressed and badly edited. The colors looked dull. The edges revealed the fact that the book might have been used by someone, badly manhandled and exchanged or sold thereafter. One of the inner pages carried the dealer’s stamp again. They were arranged in the wrong manner. The cut marks were visible (seems like someone Xeroxed the book before it went for final publishing). Pages were missing. Most of the pages repeated or disorganized. The photographs printed within were of poor quality. Print on some pages already looked faded.

The bad quality of photographs inside

The missing pages

The stamp on one of the inner pages

The tattered cover

Bad quality

The visible cut marks 

In short, Amazon.Com took me on a joyride (which was unexpected). On being displeased by the delivery, I had initiated a chat on Amazon.Com and demanded a replacement. But I was told, the book itself is out of stock. I still decided to go against my wish and retain the copy to continue reading. But when I discovered that many pages were missing, I couldn’t resist requesting them to help me return it. Right now, I am waiting for the refund to take place (of which, I am very less hopeful about).

Having said that, I also wish to know, is this a negative propaganda against Amazon.Com? Are some sellers queuing up to tarnish the image of Amazon.Com? It would be interesting to know the inner story or a discreet scandal in making.

I haven’t heard about a name like Nani-Intaya Consultant and Associates. But they being located in Delhi made my head turn otherwise. After the fiasco, these guys also had the audacity to send across an email to me:

Dear Buyer

This is to inform you that yours valuable money have been initiated back to yours account as a refund.

"We're sorry to hear about your experience with the purchase. We aim to offer quality satisfaction for all of our customer and will do whatever it takes to take care of you. Please feel free to contact us on +91-9910365748. Replacement of the purchase is always there for you. Thank for the opportunity to make this right. We've made changes to the way we operate to ensure this doesn't happen again. Your are our top priority."

It will be very kind of you if you receive yours refund back kindly notify us also and Hope you will not mind to give us some good feedback for our generous customer service via Amazon.in

Hoping to see You again :)

Thanking you.

Regards,

Nani-Intaya Consultant And Associates

New Delhi

PS: The language of this letter is questionable too.

I am disturbed that Amazon.Com is yet to drop this seller from its list of dealers on marketplace. I am equally disturbed to see how these guys are communicating with me.

If Amazon.Com can do something so hideous, I have no trust left in placing online orders for books. At the same time, it concerns me about the state of the author, the publisher. Do the author, the publisher, the printer, the editor know that counterfeit copies of an original book are sold on Amazon.Com?

If this is the state of what online shopping of books is all about then I regret to say, “We are in the sorry state of Amazon.Com”.

-Virtuous Vociferous

I RUN

It has taken greater amount of persuasion to stake my claim to the title of this post – I Run.

I find the title collective and cohesive. Some might find it coy and coercive. Yet I would stick to it; irrespective of the opinions someone might develop about me.

Coming back to the title and the activity that I associate with, I run. But I don’t run to fulfill a need or a condition, I run to address the stubbornness of immobility, I’ve had developed a habit of occasionally succumbing to. I had a fair idea that I will have to let go that habit someday. Having said that, I knew it was not going to be that easy like it seemed to be as the first and last impression. If I am asked about the last best memory of running, it would be the span of three months between October and December of 2014.

Between October and December 2014, I woke up every day to the enthusiastic idea of I RUN EVERY DAY. The idea was infectious. The idea kept my mind and muscles constantly sterilized. The idea was so strong in its form and practice, I heeded to the alarm clock at 5:30 AM every morning, irrespective of the time I might have made it to the bed. But 2015 left the idea weakened. The fitness schedule I had been boasting about and the physique I had developed fueled the erratic imagination of brashness in me. Few months down the line, I migrated to a city and the first ever habit I happened to meet with was BEING LAZY. Habits changed, hobbies changed; thoughts overlapped and somewhere in between I lost the interest in running.

Battle lines were drawn, swords were pulled out but I refused to run. There was no horsepower left in my feet to run. Days passed, months diminished and I rolled back to the city I have called home. Perceptions around me had changed. I had become arrogant but, the paunch had exceeded every limit of being a spoilt brat, which kept feeding on the fact that someday I might run. This someday overpowered every imagination, bullied my enthusiasm and I became a slave of lethargy.

But procrastination is a short lived hobby. The absence of passion in this hobby finally made it wear out. My progress continued being slow. Another year passed and I allowed myself to continue being snobbish. The first sunrise of 2017 had me looking at myself in the mirror. Day in, day out, I was sure of not being me. A pair of sports shoes, a pair of jogging t-shirts, color matched socks and shorts; everything seemed insignificant and at the same time seemed to be in waiting for me to begin. By the mid of January 2017, I knew I had to make it sure that I RUN.

February 2017 made its debut. I sought advice from a friend, who was already passionate about running. I knew there was no more time to waste and I had to wake up the next morning to ensure that I RUN. Besides running, I adapted myself to a diet plan (much unheard of me, but still). This diet plan was my introduction to a new kind of stubbornness. I had to wake up to the idea of growing fit again. And thus came the cold morning of a fading urban winter. I was on the ground, standing right in the middle; stretching my muscles and flexing my feet to put myself to test again and to write a post with a title as apt as I RUN.

To be continued…

-Virtuous Vociferous  

UNTAMED

In 2011, I posted my first TRAIN SPOTTER UPDATE on facebook and I thought I had done the most brilliant thing in this world. Late one night in the same year that is 2011, Saroo Brierley located Burhanpur railway station with the help of satellite images put together by Google Maps. He kept following those satellite images and located the town of Khandwa. Finally he was ready to head back to his real home and to his real mother. Six years down the line when I sit down to write this post for my blog, I am unable to relate to everything, I thought was brilliant about my first Train Spotter Update on facebook in 2011. I don’t wish to demean my action but, I can’t separate myself from the story of Saroo Brierley who made my eyes well up.  

The movie LION had that kind of an impact on my mind.

Honestly speaking, I don’t recollect memories of having come across any book in 2013, which had a very foreign title A LONG WAY HOME. I don’t recollect coming across a cover, which described this journey as a boy’s incredible journey from India to Australia and back again. Back then, I am sure to have missed spotting this book in a book stall, missed reading a review of this book, missed reading about the author Saroo Brierley who was telling his story to the world and of course missed the mention ‘soon to be a motion picture’. Thankfully I didn’t miss watching the book transform into a movie with a title as unusual as LION.

I remember watching the trailer of this movie and compare it immediately to Slumdog Millionaire for the commonalities it shared. The trailer showed a train, two brothers onboard, one of them getting lost and ending up being adopted. But the voice of that kid who plays young Saroo in the movie kept lingering in my mind. One of the scenes from the trailer is that of the kid standing surrounded by some kind of flying insects, remained with me. I turned to my colleague in office and I said, “I am going to watch this movie”.

Call it my gut feel or my instinct; I started following the conversations that had started taking place around this movie. I watched the interviews of actors, the makers, the producers and the man behind the movie Saroo. My expectations were at peak and once the news of LION being Oscar worthy started making the rounds; I knew I am going to watch it. I wanted to watch this movie with my mother. As planned, I did so finally. My mother and I left together for our movie date.

From the time, the movie started narrating the real life story of Saroo Brierley on the big screen, we were both left stunned. I could sense the story that its director Garth Davis had imagined narrating to me and my mother; his audience. The camera kept moving between the trails of little Saroo and his elder brother Guddu. The soundtrack placed me right there where the story was getting its voice from. But one of the most incredible things that LION as a movie did to me was to pull me into that train, which ferried little Saroo to Howrah Junction. The well-crafted screenplay made me sense the fear that little Saroo could have felt while travelling stuck in a locked compartment of a fiercely moving train.

The movie took us to Kolkata. The movie also took us to the Howrah Bridge. But it showed to us the other side of a city which comes alive only in the dead of the night. The movie revealed to us the faces, which look simple and yet they are rich with stories. The movie never stopped to make us stay connected to the real story and the challenges faced by Saroo.

LION took us to Tasmania. LION made us find our own way to good life. LION rendered me speechless.

I was seated beside my mother and recollected memories of the times, I had spent staying away from her. Yes, I had spent almost a year staying away from her. Saroo stayed away from his real mother for a long span of 25 years.

Having said that I would put it this way – LION is an amazing movie. Personally speaking, I loved it.

For God sake, don’t leave the Cineplex without watching the little piece of surprise, so beautifully weaved into the movie. And this LION roars, the echoes of that roar are absolutely EXTRAORDINARY.

-Virtuous Vociferous

THIS ONE DOESN’T HAVE A TITLE

For a crude mind, which thinks about keeping this blog alive, this one doesn’t have a title.

I wonder why we stopped kissing the papers and dating the pens.

I wonder why we stopped embarking on impromptu picnics and teasing the trees.

For all the reasons not known to you, me and everybody this one doesn’t have a title.

Of the million things left undone, are the unread weekend newspapers. Personally speaking, I consider them a matter of a lost privilege. Or the million things left undone, are the sealed packs of fine, imported coffee, which are yet to be inaugurated, brewed and served.

I must confess I have been collecting movies from all over the available hard disks and backup drives. Some of them are stored in the laptop and some are stored in external hard drives. And I am yet to make time to watch them, one after the other. Do they comprise porn? I don’t think they are significant any more.

As we wrapped up 2016 through a chilling December, I wrote a short story and titled it ‘THE TINY TRAIN TO NOWHERE’. The story met with good response. I don’t repent the pressure techniques I used to extract genuine feedback from my friends and some foes too. And I still feel, there was no pressure on any of them.

I wish I could have set out on a trek alone. A trek to the womb of my inspiration, Matheran. For ages, I haven’t been there. I haven’t heard the neighing of the horses. I haven’t sunk my nose in the stench of the dung they leave behind, mixed in the red sands of a hill station, which never ceases to surprise me. The while might still take some while to materialize and therefore, this doesn’t have a title.

January 30 marks the completion of a month into the New Year.  January 30 also marks a few birthdays; my car, my bran new bicycle and some friends too. Did I forget to mention, it is someone else’s birthday too! Only if the world could have cared or as if I care!

The trip was just an experience. Just a year back, it was a trip. The experience could have lingered. But my greed overturned it into a culture of constant hatred and a discontinued story. 

Before I could alight, the train had set in motion. The crowd was thick with envy against my ownership of the window seat. I could have spared it for the needy. But greed overtook my conscience. This one therefore doesn’t have a title.

Project 365+1 never took off. Project Escapation is not yet shelved. And yet that feeling of restlessness never leaves my side. That means, the stubbornness to put my word forward is still alive.

The darkness was absolutely misleading. The handshake was great. I paid in cash to the entertainer and rolled out swaying to my right and left. The best that I could do at that point was to make sure, THIS ONE DOESN’T HAVE A TITLE.

-Virtuous Vociferous