HIT HARD, HIT DEEP

Picture Courtesy: Google

Some people will never change and you have to accept that.

Take for instance, the not so curious case of the little country in our neighborhood. Over a period of long time, this little neighborhood of ours has been involved in most of the disturbing events in our country. Even though they have been in constant denial of the same, a sizable global audience held a common opinion – our neighborhood is a fertile premise, which has been honing terrorism for long.

But what I wish to write today is not about that little country in our neighborhood. But I wish to write about our great nation, which decided to hit this little country hard, and hit it deep down in its hovel.

As gathered from the news headlines and the photographs now made available by ANI, the targeted spots were hotbeds of Jaish-E-Mohammed terror camp. But I still fail to understand as to why they had the flags of US, UK and Israel painted on the staircases of this camp!

All of the above might have its own share of debates, to be followed throughout the day and the days to follow. But the real thing is about India deciding to hit hard, hit deep. Hadn’t we recently been told through the movie URI? Yeh Naya Hindustan Hai. Yeh Ghar Mey Ghusega Bhee. Aur Ghooskar Maarega Bhee (This is a New India. This India will break into homes. And will hit out too). And, very gracefully the country’s leadership made sure to stand true to its words, to exercise complete freedom, to protect our nation.

Coming to talk about the little country in our neighborhood, I am left to wonder as to how they would now retaliate. They will retaliate. But they will retaliate in the coward and overt ways that it has been in the past.

Now, at this moment of time, just come to think of it; India as an idea and India as a nation. Both are so terrifically powerful. Yes we are powerful. All of us, the Indians, no matter where we are born, where we hail from, the pride is to be felt in the way, the world will stay geared to address us – The Indians did it. The entire vibe around these words is about seriousness. As if there is an ongoing echo in the background, which is being repeated – Don’t mess with us the Indians, don’t mess with us the Indians, don’t mess with us the Indians.

Touted as Surgical Strike 2.0, this is our strategically timed reply to not only that little country in our neighborhood. But this is also our straight faced reply to those, who take us for granted. Reviving memories from yesteryear, our nation was once counted as many of the nations, which appeared in the ignored list of third world countries. I think that debate of first world and third world should be put to rest. We are here to stay and we are here to show our might against those who shall attack us, back-stab us and leave us feeling unsettled.

As I move closer to conclude this post, I would like to seek your attention to a comment made in the past against our nation. Someone had said – We will bleed India through a 1000 cuts. I think, today’s strike has put the straining impact of this comment to rest.

Now that we have retaliated, let us be sane enough to not praise an artist who would want to cross over from the little country in our neighborhood and render service in our film industry. I am sure, our film industry will also respect the recent action and the past tragedies.  

Signing off, I wish to express my immense gratitude towards the country’s leadership, which just didn’t preach but made sure to practice. So, if someone asks me – How is the Josh? I shall happily reply, “ALWAYS HIGH SIR”.

- Virtuous Vociferous | February 26 | February Blog-5 | Never Settle | 2019

BLEEDING CIVILIZATION

(All the above pictures have been clicked by me at 8.45 pm, February 23)

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning. You’re just awake. Perhaps enjoying a hot cup of tea. You might also be in a mood to turn a few pages of the Sunday newspaper. If you’re not interested in current affairs, it doesn’t matter. It’s a Sunday and you will always seek pleasure from the pleasant things of life. Am I any different from you? I too will follow the same. And, I might also feel very displeased, if someone decides to ruin my Sunday by bringing me face to face with something absolutely unpleasant. None of us will be interested in leaving the comfort zone, made freely available by every Sunday of our lives; one after the other. But I am helpless. I am eager to seek your company in something that’s immensely unpleasant in nature. 

For the last five years, the country’s leadership has been trying its level best to ensure a ‘Swachh Bharat’, a so called ‘Clean India’. And, let me remind you, this vision is not of an intolerant political party but a vision once shared by the father of our nation; none other than the ambassador of peace Mahatma Gandhi. He had once said and I quote – CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO GODLINESS. And, this cleanliness is achievable, only when we, the people decide to be civilized. But, we seem to be failing at it every day. Yes, we are!

Ever since rules/duties of ‘Swachh Bharat’ have been implemented, we have been doing our bit to ensure adopting them in our day to day activities. But, there is no dearth of uncivilized minds, who will make sure that India continues to look unclean. I think their minds will continue to remain sick like the self-proclaimed NRIs of our school. Not all of them, but a handful of them from our 1993 batch (specifically 2/3 of them). These minds are so sick that at the sight of anything clean, they will try their best to leave it unclean. The same happened to my car, last evening. I think, a group of tobacco/gutka/pan masala munchers couldn’t digest the cleanliness standards, I maintain for my car. The shade of my car being white, such wrongdoers get easily attracted to it. So this group or individual made sure that they smear the front door, some portion of the window glass and the door handle with their red colored spirit. I had parked my car in a silent lane. Immediately after a span of mere 15 minutes, when I came back to my car, I saw this ghastly site. The first few words, which came to my mind instantly were – OUR CIVILIZATION IS BLEEDING. This is third time in the row, when such a thing has repeated itself.

Honestly speaking we are not yet civilized. I think, at times some of us decide to program an ecosystem of one-sided revenge by simply choosing to act in such uncivilized manner. I’ve no idea as to at what fault, my car was! Or, did any of my action was so hurtful to anyone that they chose to leave the car door painted in red. For a second, it almost felt that a bleeding civilization had left my car to bleed alone. I must actually be saying that the so called modern civilization is bleeding. The bad blood within them is going to take some time to flow out.

This action of the unknown, unseen miscreants have not angered me. But I am concerned about the state of coming days. Are we going to fail the dream, the mission, the vision of ‘Swachh Bharat’ or ‘Clean India’? Are we going to fail the father of our nation, who at one point of time belonged to a tolerant political party? Or we will sit in front of our television sets to be a voiceless participant in the mindless debates, which break out against the current leadership of the country. 

Through this post of mine, I wish to make an appeal; if a little bit of pride of being an Indian is left in you, stop being a part of this bleeding civilization. Stop being a part of a civilization, which bleeds for no reason and makes cleanliness bleed every day, makes clean things bleed every day. At least for once, stop being like those self-proclaimed NRIs, who have fled the country to embrace slavery and cleanliness of foreign nations.

- Virtuous Vociferous | February 24 | February Blog-4 | Never Settle | 2019

BEING WITH SELF

Courtesy: Google

Solitude is a boon.

The sooner we accept this reality, the lesser aggrieved, we shall start feeling. Because in solitude, we are free to discover the other side, we ourselves might not be well acquainted with. Solitude makes it possible to celebrate being with self. The same self, which is otherwise caught in conversations, with the subconscious mind. At times, don’t we wish, these conversations had been a little more audible!

Being with self puts an end to expectations.

The self doesn’t cause delays. We don’t have to wait for anyone to report to us or met us on time. We can ourselves pursue punctuality and reap its benefits.

Being with self, makes life breathe through that single window opening of hope. Hurts of all nature; be it physical or emotional, start maintaining a safe distance. Mediums of healing are always found to be in agreement with the self.

This self shouldn’t be confused with being selfish. Usage of terms like, ‘me time’, ‘my space’, ‘my time’, ‘my zone’, ‘my world’ sound good and land closer to the core thought process of ‘being with self’.

The self that is being written about, the being with self that is being pursued is immensely interesting. The characteristics are brighter like freedom, happiness and oneness. It is understandable when it grows a little hard to move on from your faithful others. But this is different. The time to move on with this infectious self is now.

This self could be the strength behind that long harbored determination to fall in love again. This self could be the partner in the long wished journey to the invisible tip of the globe. This self could be the next train you wish to board and travel unannounced to an unknown destination of not your choice, but of instinct.

Some say, “Being with self is loneliness.” Try looking at it in a slightly different manner and soak in the abundance.

The abundance of being with self. And yes, discover the richness of being with self.

- Virtuous Vociferous | February 20 | February Blog-3 | Never Settle | 2019

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

WHAT COULD BE MY FEBRUARY STORY?

It takes time to crossover from one written piece to the other. Yes, it does take ample amount of time for the crossover to take place successfully. After having posted my last blog update on December 31, 2018, I couldn’t match pace with my restlessly thinking mind, vigorously browsing vision and self-imposed relaxing therapies. Thus, I am yet to figure out, ‘what could be my February story?’

My February story could be my second book. When I talk about my second book, eyebrows go up like mini parachutes, lips are left partly ajar. Surprises are always going to be welcome, when my first book was a self-published attempt, which eventually didn’t get caught in ugly thunderstorms of irrelevance or failure. The book made its silent debut and still sits on the desks, in the shelves, over wardrobes of innumerable friends and well-wishers. Poems and quotes from my first book still find mentions on some pages of social media. Coming back to my February story, it could be my second book for sure. The so called second book has an interesting character with an uncharacteristic name. This uncharacteristic name will remind everyone of something about themselves. I would have loved so much to reveal a little more about my second book and the characters in it; being selfish, I won’t!

Since winters have made a comeback, my February story could be the winters by themselves. But then, won’t that be a repeat of something I wrote and posted on this blog with the title of ‘holding on to winters’, dated December 18? Anyway the verb ‘repeat’ enjoys a healthy association in the bar, which serves top and low quality alcohol to insanely thirsty throats and egos. Thus, my February story needs to be different.

What if February being the month of love, my February story talks about love? Does that sound like a good idea, when 100s of websites are ready to bombard us with free bytes on love? No matter, how strange, it may sound; Valentine’s Day just missed the mark of being my February story.

Did I tell you that I watched URI-The Surgical Strike? I could easily have written about it. If I ever make a movie or shoot a documentary, which I would, someday (definitely a documentary), I would want to write it that way! Since I am a fan of bound scripts, I won’t make the film/documentary till I have a proper script in place. At this stage, the overall thought of wanting to shoot a documentary could be my February story. My only concern is, when I am talking about the February story, does a desire sound like a story? Does it really sound like a story? I think, this part is in need of some introspection. Yet, it lacks the gravity of becoming my February story.

And then, the other day I was traveling by train. Just one of those journeys when I wasn’t in a mood to pick up a fight with a fellow traveler. Little did I realize, first class compartments are filled with good, bad and ugly egos! Yes, these egos can grow immensely loud and can act like bloodhounds. Trust me, they can. From a single moment of me refusing to put a passenger’s bag on the rack, the situation catapulted itself to a warlike situation. To conclude, it was a bag it or die without it situation. Sounds interesting? Thus, it will always find a place in one of the other books of mine (soon to begin work upon). Therefore I chose to strike it out from the list of many things, which I think could have been my February story.

As I get ready to conclude this update and am left to decide upon my February story, I am trying to probe, why did I leave January alone? Well, January begins with a big bang of resolutions. And I think that is what my heart is still transfixed with. To keep it simple, I think I have stumbled upon my February story. Will I be writing it? If I could think about it, I can definitely write it too!

To end on a happy note, I think, I was busy seeking and searching for my February story. I found it.

- Virtuous Vociferous | February 11 | February Blog-1 | Never Settle | 2019

MY DEAR DAY

In the middle of nowhere, I chose to look out for you; I was pleased to see, you hadn’t left; you are still here. You know, how much I love this beautiful relationship of ours. I never feel, I’ve ever taken such efforts to be able to spend more time with anyone; not even with the ones, I had once called mine.

You aren’t clueless that I was planning to write to you. Forgive me; I delayed writing to you. I should have finished writing to you, two hours back. But you are well aware about my commitment towards something else as well. I did conclude writing 12 very special letters to the year that it was; about learning, about changing my perspective, about saying a simple Thank You. Thus the delay caused in writing to you.

I wish to ask – are you in a hurry? What are you seeking from this hurry, this urgency? Just sit back, relax and enjoy all the attention that I am showering on you. I wish, if I could make you wait a little longer. But the wry smile on your face tells me, that you were already aware of your short lived aura.

You remember, last year too, around the same time, I was dealing with a dilemma of a similar nature. But you slipped away. Why are you so heartless? Don’t you for once feel something for this admirer of yours? Why should you? You are by now, well-versed with this repeated emotion of mine.

Can you feel it? I hope you can. The vibration of my heavily beating heart; the sensation of my brazen breaths getting heavier with emotions; the complication of thoughts in my wild mind. Even though you are ensuring to make a comeback soon, will these feelings return! But this moment; will you be able to bring this one back as well?

I hate these questions, which keep rising within the mind. But these questions hold the potential to take the shape of prophecies too; interestingly everything I feel about you can sound like prophecies.

The clock is ticking. My eyes are as much on the constantly ticking clock, as much as yours are. Looking at your unease, I only hope that you want to be left alone. No matter, how much you wish to be left alone, I will still be around you.

May I ask you something? Why can’t you slow down a bit? Trust me, this hurried pace doesn’t seem like a matter of high comfort. I was just thinking, if I could share with you about the few scattered ideas, which I sewed together to create a special fabric of my creative pursuits. But I think, I can avoid that at this hour. Your silence speaks louder than the voice of my thoughts.

Did I tell you, how much ink, I played in with? You were here. I am wanting to tell you about it; simply by imagining that you may have missed it. Do I sound irrelevant? Are my one sided conversations sounding like dead sermons? Perhaps yes. This golden silence of yours; it is more painful than any other characteristic of yours.

Listen. You still have a lot of time left with you; before you decide to finally move out. Things went by well. Being here, you were a witness to the events. All so rich in texture. Interesting, very interesting!

Oh! So is it time then? That gesture of yours; is it trying to convey across something? Oh yes! Let’s hug. You’ve to bid multiple good byes. You are someone famous. What do I address you as? Famous personality or a celebrity! Ok, both! Happy? Oh come on, don’t make faces. I assure you, I will be fine. Yes, I will be fine, even after you leave. And, why are your eyes moist? You mean to say, yours are moist because mine are! What rubbish? You are insane. Anyway bidding adieus is a tough thing for me. But when I am faced with this moment of saying a final good bye to you for this year; my dear day, trust me; I am going to have a tough time missing you.

See you soon. Drop me a message, once you reach. Yes, I know it will take one fresh week of another new year for you to return to me again, by being different and being my dear day again – SUNDAY.

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 30-31 | December Blog-4 | The Conclusion | 2018

AT THE EXTREME EDGE OF NIGHT

She is not home tonight. She seems to have found a new companion. During festive seasons, she keeps busy. The neighborhood is quite abuzz with curiosity over some of her secret doings and some not so secret doings. She is bold. She drinks a little more than the men, she befriends. She eats a lot less than the women, she detests. She is not home tonight. I feel relieved that she is not home tonight.

I think, it is the fourth time in last two weeks, that she has gone missing. Last time, she had wrongly knocked on my door. Right in the middle of the night, she had knocked on my door. Bloody hell, who could it be? That was my first expression. On opening the door, my second expression was charming enough to leave a lasting impression – Oh, I am so sorry to have not imagined, it could be you!

Was she impressed by that corny line of mine? Yes, she was! I couldn’t press the door against her any longer. She walked in. She smelt of alcohol, burnt tobacco and the perfume advertised by Kristen Stewart (Channel or Chanel). She came closer; too close to make me feel uncomfortable (actually to get me more excited).

Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still echoes in my mind. Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still leaves me excited. Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still leaves me feeling a little pissed off!

After having asked the question, she had walked back to her apartment. I had followed her. Had she seen me following her? Had she not? She had slammed the door on me. I remember it tonight. Because, she is not home tonight.

I wish every night could be like this night, I am left alone with desires to hold her tight.

What is that smell all about? She had asked me once, when I had crossed over to her apartment, right in the middle of the day. She had gently opened the door. Her home seemed a little undone. I could see the traces of an undesired visitor show up loudly in her eyes. I had turned. She called for me. I turned again and made it back to the door of her apartment. She invited me in. I sat on the sofa and waited for her turn to close the door and settle down for a conversation. But all she did was, ask the question – What is that smell all about?

I remember of having sniffed and also having replied – That’s not a smell, that’s the fragrance of my new deodorant.

Deodorant? She had questioned. Deodorant? She had asked again. Deodorant? She kept asking. It’s still a smell; she had remarked.

Before I could call her a bloody whatever, she had suddenly come closer and whispered in my ears – Men smell good when they don’t wear a deodorant, do you understand Mister Ambassador of Deodorant?

There have been complaints flying wild in the air, within the neighborhood and around it. I was left a little unsettled by the realization – What if they ban her from entering her own home?

The fear of my realization did find its home in the notice they had slammed on her face. But somehow, she managed to stay back and continues to stay here, right here, in this home. Many haven’t seen her come in or go out; many nights after nights. But I’ve seen her sit here, sleep here and stay right here.

Because at the extreme edge of night, it is only her spirit, which wanders around. And prior to that, whoever saw her alive was of the opinion that she is one of those walking dead.

Thankfully, she is not home tonight. But I can still hear her hum:

Home is behind, the world ahead,

And there are many paths to tread

Through shadows to the edge of night,

Until the stars are all alight.

I still wait for her; be it in her real form or in the form of a ghost that she shall come; we will definitely meet at the extreme edge of night.

Only, I have a different name for her, I call her INSPIRATION. And what’s the harm, if she decides on her own to visit my mind, at the extreme edge of night! And she is the one to also make me write; again at the extreme edge of night.

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 26 | December Blog-3 | Making of the story | 2018

HOLDING ON TO WINTERS

She stepped out of the bed; he was still asleep. She placed her feet on the floor, which had turned ice-cold by now. She climbed back into the bed; cozied up to him; tried to seek his attention! He was warm, she wasn’t! After repetitive trials, she gave up. Just then, he turned; she saw a flash of hope. He gently opened his eyes, which met hers. He looked deep into her eyes, took a deep breath, dragged her closer; they kissed. They kissed till the time the alarm went off; they kissed till the time the sun showed up; they kissed till the time they were ready to wake up; they kissed till the time was up for him to rise and leave. His departures hurt her more than his disappearances. Her agony hit him more than her angelic appearance. But this time, it was different; he didn’t move an inch away from her; she moved many more inches closer to him. The winters had cast a spell. All they looked forward were reasons to hold on to themselves; hold on to each other and the idea of holding on to winters.

Winters! Do we feel it in Mumbai, the way the two lovers are feeling up there, in the above paragraph? Or we feel it more in Kolkata and Delhi! How about Chennai? Is Bengaluru pleasant, mild or wild during winters? It must be snowing in all parts of states, which are located closer to the Himalayan range! Why is the city of Pune always too pleasant? Why some of the homes in Nashik don’t require a fan during winters? Should the hunt for warm clothes in the bed cabinets be intensified? Should the routine and pattern of everyday clothes change? Winters! They leave so much in between to imagine, initiate and intensify.

Intense. As intense or as cold as the love between them, the two lovers above! Because all they looked forward were reasons to hold on to themselves; hold on to each other and the idea of holding on to winters. Such intense is love during winters. The intensity is so severe that kisses and embrace don’t suffice; the experience evolves into something, which is known as the phenomenon of oneness.

Oneness. Winters are always about oneness. Not just the oneness between those two lovers; but the oneness one embraces, while sitting around a freshly lit bonfire. Or the oneness, friends feel while making another Patiala peg to be put up on offer. Frequency of partying goes up. Repetitiveness of eventualities to meet someone multiplies.

Multiplication. He loves it more, only when they are together. This multiplication has got nothing to do with arithmetic or other calculations. This multiplication is of human nature; both, physical and psychological. Love multiplies, emotions multiply. Her desire to continue being with him multiplies. In short, winter plays a bigger role in fueling the many innumerable multiplications of life.

Life/Lives. Lives during winters tend to grow so different. Maybe not too different in Mumbai. But definitely different in Kolkata and Delhi. Winters in the winter prone places are so much about stillness. Winters in the not so prone to winter places are so much about knowing.

Knowing. Knowing each other every time they meet, is in many ways more romantic, and immensely desirable to continue holding on to winters.

Now, in the bed that they are together again, they will create some new stories. But will there be stories from people and lovers, apart from them? If not, would we really mind creating or cooking up stories of our own.

All of it, for the simple desire of those two lovers and the seekers like us. Or much like some well-known hobbies or just an easy hobby of holding on to winters.

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 17 | December Blog-2 | Making of the story | 2018

WHEN AM I WRITING NEXT?

In a disgusted voice, a friend remarked – For how long are you going to sport the title of WHAT AM I WRITING NEXT?

I asked – WHERE?

The friend, in a heightened voice of disgust remarked – ON YOUR BLOG.

In a timid voice, I expressed – OH!

The last line of the WhatsApp message read – DO ONE THING. TITLE IT AS ‘WHEN AM I WRITING NEXT?’

By the time, I could craft a reply, the WhatsApp chat window froze. The two tick marks never turned blue. I was agitated; not because of the remark but, because of the sharper than razor reminder of I having written nothing new. For almost two months; since my last blog post on September 16, my personal blog www.virtuousvociferous.blogspot.in slipped into a slumber of sorts. I was at my wits end to sense what had made me discontinue blogging, which is almost like a habit. I suspected my newer addictions (Netflix & Amazon Prime); I regretted my older addictions (unmentionable). But, it didn’t take me much time to realize that I had not lit the table lamp; I had not turned the new page in the diary; I had not sought inspiration; I had not maintained consistency. Things had to change.

Therefore, rather than regret and turn the thought process into a regressive piece of junk, I made sure that I don’t leave the cup of warm memories out in the cold. The fast approaching winters might turn that cup ice cold. Faced by guilt and reminded of the scathing remark of ‘When am I writing next’, I decided to warm up to conversations, readings and observations. As I continued to warm up, my throat turned dry; my breath turned heavy; my vision grew skeptical; my voice stumbled.

Thus, to restart from where I had left on September 16, I decided to go back to my age-old series of #TrainSpotterUpdate (if you’re on Instagram, do follow the hash tag). Since 2011, the series has been active and somewhat popular, in many ways on various platforms of social media. But, Instagram helped me redefine the life of this objective and vision; now known as #TrainSpotterUpdate.

The series took me to Dadar foot over bridge and I found inspiration roaming around. The series took me to the extreme corner of Train No.12137-Punjab Mail. The series took me back to places, I’ve always felt belonged to; the great Indian railways. But, I would like to clarify that my blog will not be limited to stories from in and around railways. My blog will continue being the canvas, which holds together bright imaginations of stories, I have always wished to narrate to myself and you.

So to answer the question – WHEN AM I WRITING NEXT, I would just wish to conclude saying, this blog post is just the beginning. Await the next.

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 12 | December Blog-1 | Making of the story | 2018

IN THIS PART OF THE TOWN

I am not a stranger in this part of the town. I never was! The station, I alighted at; isn’t this the same station, mom would repeatedly remind me of alighting at, if I had to visit the Taraporewala Aquarium to quench my thirst of curiosity about marine life.

Isn’t this the same road, on which I have walked often to attend interviews or in search of absolute nothings? Yes, this is indeed the same road, which is now home to the most famous Saifee Hospital. It’s hard to resist its towering personality. So many healthcare professionals might be at work in there; saving lives, breathing in new life and dedicating their lives to the art of nurturing human lives.

But I am not writing this piece to explain my historical or geographical connection with this part of the town. It is in this part of the town, wherein some of my friends have their homes and they still live here as its integral citizens. They are so deeply rooted in here that they don’t have to brandish any tag, logo or banner to be called true Mumbaikars. They are Mumbaikars by nature, by existence and by the legacy they belong to.

I am writing this to express my gratitude to an experience, I was invited to be a part of, within the unmapped and timeless legacy of a home. So integrally weaved into the social fabric of the urban culture of South Bombay, this home spoke to my soul. Right inside this home, is installed the idol of Lord Ganesha, as a part of the ten-day festivities of Ganesh Chaturthi. Decorated in a traditional style, minus all the fakeness of the now banned thermocol or any other cosmetic decorations; the deity is surrounded with artefacts, lights and a cutely designed cloth roof above. The home is filled with the aroma of freshly lit incense sticks; the fragrance seems to be travelling in from years of faith in the God, who puts an end to all troubles. He surely does. Who am I, but just a mortal human being to describe the Almighty’s big wonders!

The home is surrounded by a perfect blend of varied cultures. Be it the little church, the temple on an escalated platform, the police station, the well decked homes of peace-loving Parsis or the many other communities, which peeped out of their balconies to send a smile or a happy greeting to someone known or even unknown.

Outlets of industrial steel occupy the ground floors. But they aren’t causing any harm; except the loud Marwari voices of laborers working inside or the Rajasthani hammers beating the lives out of the steel ores. The neighborhood is interesting. Mistakenly I entered the wrong wing. I knocked on their doors too. Since they had CCTV cameras installed in the lobby and having spotted me as a stranger, they chose to not even open their doors. Thankfully I found the right wing and once I stepped in, I slipped into my chosen space of spiritual ease.

My friend and the family members gave me a warm welcome. I was surprised, that such kindhearted people still live in this part of the town. The conversations were so close to the heart; not for once, did I feel like a stranger or like a first time visitor. The home, the beams which support it, the flooring, the wooden furniture, the staircase, the cavity in the wall to lit a lamp or two; everything seemed so perfect and precise. But what held my attention were those three windows, which made me connect with my ancestral home in Kolkata. The windows overlooked the road below and the snakelike row of two wheelers parked haphazardly. The windows made me imagine about that day of a forgotten year, when a small ritual was held to step in, for the first time, in this blessed home. The people who might have walked through the road, in search of this home, asking for directions or reconfirming the address. The first festival that was celebrated or the first big event that was held.

After offering prayers, I might have walked out of that home. But the taste of water offered to me, is still fresh. The delight of the food served to me, is still so alive. The aura is unforgettable. I am left already missing it so much; I think it is only advisable that I keep coming repetitively in this part of the town.

- Virtuous Vociferous | September 16 | September Blog-2| Making of the story | 2018

TRAPPED BY MIDNIGHT

Midnight.

I love it. Everything is so pure. Everybody so unavailable. Everything so unconnected.

Midnight. The background of my imagination, the premise of my poems, the canvas of my writings.

At times, I step out. On most occasions, I don’t.

Yet, the midnight! In its complete glory of a newlywed bride and sometimes in full bloom of a secret lover, chooses to take over. I, on my end, just surrender.

Casting a spell, seducing my mind, also flowing within my veins, the midnight puts things in place to emerge as the most likely winner.

Midnight makes music my best friend. At the same time, it reminds me of the best friend, I haven’t spoken to on many wasted nights.

I’ve seen unlikely corners come to life. I’ve felt unfamiliar voices coming my way. With due courtesy to midnight, I once again see the storyteller, seated well past 12 am and writing this piece. It is perhaps 3.30 am or maybe 4 am, the writing continues.

The table lamp is no more in action. But the desk is still very much alive. The laptop is doped. Maybe it is the midnight, which is trying to trick me in one or the other way.

A drop of ink from the fountain pen lands on a blank sheet of virgin white paper. The mesmerizing voice of Sophie Simmons; well how do I put it, but, she seems to be anchoring a walk by the seaside.

Though simplicity seems to be at the core of this midnight. I still feel trapped by midnight.

Not many mid nights ago, I stood by the window. All I could see were the shadows of two disloyal lovers. These lovers had found their way in our lane, to perhaps make out. Luckily by the next midnight, their lust story was over.

The rains echo deep. It is after all the vastness of this midnight, which turn the rains into something much more unimaginably lovable. Then suddenly the aroma of wet mud takes over. What follows next is what I know as magic. Or should I say, the midnight magic.

But just like other changing things, this midnight too isn’t permanent in nature. The elements around it would automatically change.

I will still be here, imagining, dreaming, reading or simply writing. I feel happy for being driven and sense that I somehow enjoy being trapped by midnight.

- Virtuous Vociferous | September 09 | September Blog-1| Making of the story | 2018

IN HOT AND COLD PURSUIT OF MY OWN WORDS

Ever since, I’ve started reading Karl Ove Knausgård's ‘A DEATH IN THE FAMILY’, the first book in his ‘My Struggle’ series, one line has stayed with me. On the 218th page, he reveals – Writing is more about destroying than creating. Let me add, people who aren’t passionate about reading or not remotely interested in writing, will definitely get this line wrong, absolutely wrong. It is not just a line; but it is a deep insight. An insight, Karl Ove Knausgård credits another writer with. He speaks about Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud, who seems to have realized this, at a very early age. But my second only post for the month of August is not about discussing Knausgård’s books or Rimbaud’s philosophy. This blog post is driven by the insight – Writing is more about destroying than creating. 

As someone had said in the past, it’s difficult to understand some of my writings. Initially I took it as a scathing remark and criticism of my work too. But I think, I misinterpreted. I feel so because they have never been close to the passion of writing or to the habit of reading. At the same time, everyone has the equal right to react towards anything and everything. 

I wish to simplify it further. Not many years before when social media exploded in our lives, we took to it like fish to water. After the debacle of Orkut, my writings found a new home in Facebook, a studio apartment in twitter and a penthouse in LinkedIn. The sense of freedom was so immense; I chose to develop a new identity of my own. Even though this newly designed identity demands a complete story of its own, I wish to push ahead by saying that Virtuous Vociferous is my alter ego on Facebook. On twitter, I am @puruthegreat; on LinkedIn, I’ve stuck to my presence as Purnesh Bhattacharya. Under all names, I chose to write what I think, I should; because I believed in my thoughts. I never gave it a thought that the outer world is equally interested in my thoughts. No I didn’t give it a second thought, because I was not completely interested in the thoughts of others. Thus began my journey of words.

Sometimes I went too far; at times, I stayed too close and on most occasions, I wrote seamlessly without any apprehension in my mind. As my words grew braver, my text bigger and my thoughts wider; the outer world deep dived in my writing matters. 

Recently someone read this on my LinkedIn page - The habit of asking too many questions might go against you in the real world. Especially when others don't believe that asking questions are the first necessary steps to lead change from front. The person who read this, first liked this post and then went out announcing to the world that I am writing dangerous things on LinkedIn. My writings/posts on Facebook met with the same fate. Objections, opinions and oddities swarmed together, which eventually led to me deciding to stop sharing my thoughts, up loud or clearly on Facebook. I don’t know, who decided to take things in their control and start telling me that I was revealing more than what could meet the eyes of my contenders. Prior to that, a school friend of mine had made fun of the length of my writings on Facebook; he chose to even ask a stupid question – How much does Facebook pay you to write so frequently and so much on your wall? Initially I chose to brush him aside. But he didn’t stop there; he started posting filthy comments on my writings. I didn’t block him. I only blocked him when he thought that advertising his recent hobbies was really cool on Facebook. His length of thoughts seemed to spill out of his own wall on Facebook. Some more recent digs over a year led to me abandoning writing on Facebook, LinkedIn and even twitter. Then came Instagram and life changed. But more than social media platforms, some beautiful people (beautiful by heart) made me change my mind and recharged my mind to start writing across all social media platforms; on which, I am very much active.  

Therefore, in hot and cold pursuit of my words, I can’t wait to restart. The philosophy which went into developing Virtuous Vociferous or @puruthegreat can’t ever stop midway. To conclude, if you are still reading this and still are in a mood to create your own opinion about me, go ahead; my journey has just begun.

- Virtuous Vociferous | August 26 | August Blog-2 | Making of the story | 2018

IN THE KINGDOM OF CAPTAIN KIAN

Captain Kian

I felt his soft fingers tickle my chin. As I slowly opened my eyes, his eyes were on me. For a moment, I had forgotten that I had gone partying last night. Had it not been for him, I would have not believed of having woken up in the little kingdom that he proudly stakes his claim to.

In the ‘Kingdom of Captain Kian’, I am his subject. On other days, I have never felt the need to spot a snail. Neither have I placed a rarely found stone and a beach shell around a snail, to serve as an interesting topic for a perfect Instagram update. 

Captain Kian’s kingdom holds a special place in my heart for the things, his kingdom holds within itself. My favorite sighting though is his little bicycle, which is parked right below his father’s bicycle, which actually hangs out of the wall, right behind their kitchen wall. Or did I mention about Captain Kian’s tiny helmet, which is placed right on the top of his father’s huge helmet and besides his mother’s stylish helmet!

I’ve always been a fan of Captain Kian’s enthusiasm. Just last week, he won a medal for having run a marathon of 5 kms, which took him through hilly terrains and plain lands. The vision of the medal dangling around Captain Kian’s neck is yet to fade out of my memory. It won’t, I am sure, the vision won’t fade; no memory of his has ever faded out. 

Captain Kian is a quick learner. His proud mother shared with me an incident as to how Captain Kian strummed his guitar to an audience of marathon runners and participants. If I am not mistaken, he was instantly bestowed the title of ‘The Young Guitarist’. 

At the age that Captain Kian is now, I hadn’t even thought of taking up cooking. But apart from pursuing many hobbies, Captain Kian has a penchant for cooking too. His mother had once shared with me a video of him presenting his very own procedure of cooking a delicacy. I was stunned by his mannerisms. If he takes this part seriously, he may fare exceptionally well as a chef too. How can I forget mentioning the breakfast he made for me? A breakfast of bread slices, with cheese and peri peri between them! I wish, I could have had them more! Only that, I had chosen to begin with a light diet.

Captain Kian's Kingdom of Joy

By now, while reading, you must have realized that Captain Kian dons many hats. He is a very good creator too. If you get a chance, do take some time off your busy schedule to see as to what he does with his Legos. I got the chance to see it. I sensed the passion with which, he had created a structure. This structure holds a swimming pool, two Bankura horses (wooden toy horses, I had gifted to his mother). He has also parked a huge vehicle, closer, very closer to the structure. The vehicle, in Captain Kian’s words, “is a transformer and can take any shape anytime.” Since the structure needs security, Captain Kian has deputed one of the many robots one gets to see in Michael Bay’s movie version of the ‘Transformers’. 

In here, I also wish to mention that Captain Kian is an animal lover too! He secretly smuggles in kittens in his home (even though his mother is highly allergic to them), feeds stray dogs and shares a warm relationship with birds.

Captain Kian and I have one thing in common; we both love books. I’ve seen him sit with a book. He won’t leave a single word unread. Once he is done, it becomes our automatic responsibility to make ourselves available for the series of questions, he would demand answers to; of course from us! But I trust his knowledge more than mine. He might be a bookworm but his ways of learning things are not bookish. Maybe that is something, he seems to have inherited from his cinematographer father or his writer mother (others know her as a medical writer, for me she is a writer; a fellow writer).

Of the performer in him, that I am a fan of, Captain Kian leaves no stone unturned. If he takes a liking to someone, he can put up an instant performance too. Till the time I was preparing to take his leave from his kingdom at Shivaji Park, he shook a leg or two to a folk song. I recorded that moment on my mobile. I shall cherish it for days to come.

As I bid a heavy hearted good bye to Captain Kian, he came closer to me and whispered in my ears – Why can’t you stay back? Why do you have to leave every time? Can’t you spend an entire day with me/us? To his questions, I had the simplest answer in the most affirmative tone – I will definitely make sure that I meet every demand of yours. By the window side, where we had our morning breakfast and our cups of tea, Captain Kian once again expressed that he wishes to revisit my residence. He further added, he wishes to stay back for a day or two.

If the future gives me a chance, I would like to write an entire series with Captain Kian as the central hero. Will his character be that of a detective? I don’t think so. But if I ever get the chance to establish one connection between his character and mine, it would be of that pure emotion, which stirred within me the feeling of parenthood. All this, in his little kingdom of joy… Captain Kian’s Kingdom of joy!

- Virtuous Vociferous | August 12 | August Blog-1 | Making of the story | 2018

IN THAT PERSONAL SPACE OF ‘I BEING ME’

In times of uncertainty, we delve deeper. We develop a habit of interrogating every cause and their immediate effect. Being human, we are more inclined towards evidence, which can be documented, disbursed.

These are also the times, when we are caught in the radar of adversaries. They never reveal their real identity. They hide behind masks. They are ten steps ahead of us. They wait to strike with their flappy plans. They see their favorite prey in us.

Things grow murkier, when we, the uncertain us, join hands with our adversaries to follow what they claim to be the best; also certain about. This agreement is based on the pure insight of we supposedly seeking support to sustain our sinking belief, faith and trust in us. We are too late to realize; this is how we make ourselves available to be taken for granted. In short, we cross over to an unknown territory, a space where we don’t belong to, a space which only belongs to our adversaries. Forget it, shit happens, things stink; we need to move on.

Thus, I decided to differ and use this opportunity to create a personal space of mine. This is that personal space of ‘I being me’. I am at no one’s mercy. I am in no one’s favor. I am the one to decide, when I am faced with a single challenge or an army of unthinkable contingencies; as to whom I am answerable to; whom I am not answerable to.

When I am in that personal space of ‘I being me’, I am not sure of my actions going down well with everybody. I might sound very less demanding of others; I might seem very excessively demanding of me, myself. This space could make me grow nasty or turn me into a beast of worst things. Time suggests, I take complete advantage of this space. Trust me, I have started doing that.

Now the question arises of whether I stand to hurt the feelings of those, who are trying to help me through uncertainties. It is up to them to decide. I haven’t spoken a single word, which is bitter in taste; neither would I act against their instincts. Only my response would be ill-timed or probably out of context. If they trust me, they will continue to respect this space. If they don’t, they can each their own. On an honest note, favors are not forgotten; they are to be done justice with. Why would I be different then?

Right now, I am in a happy space. It did involve the much anticipated bit of struggle to find my way into this space. But I am left with no regrets. Neither do I repent over the wrong decisions, which only ended up making me more vocal to demand what is right with regards to my fundamental right.

‘I being me’ is a selfish little space of being content. I am not seeking solidarity in here, but I am aware about its existence. This space may make one grow intolerant. The levels of discomfort may hit an all-time high. But this move is a constructive activity; the steps already taken or to be taken are of statistical nature; the overall objective is to surrender to this space and rediscover the nature and the character, I am made of.

To conclude, if I am a being, I have the right to claim, to create, to construct and to constitutionalize what I truly believe in. Since I am not just a being, but a human being, who is endeavoring to be different, I don’t need your permission. I just wish to continue being in that personal space of I BEING ME.

PS: Dedicated to the seventh month of all months – July… and to the one born in this month of July.

- Virtuous Vociferous | July 29 | July Blog-5 | Making of the beast | 2018

THROUGH THE DAY

She is relentless.

Over the years, she has been wielding power.

I remember the slogan, she had introduced us to – Mother, Earth, Human.

We were waking up to brightness from an era of darkness.

Her arrival on the political canvas had meant independence from hooliganism.

Sorry to make a note and blow a bugle of caution; she has reversed the course of hooliganism and remolded it into something worse than that.

Her political demands have never followed a pattern.

In the past, she was a rebel, I had personally looked up to.

Today, she is someone, I don’t wish to even catch a glimpse of.

Her speeches are punctuated with hatred.

The least, I had expected of her was to witness an unnecessary change – West Bengal to Bangla.

What next?

She is talented.

Today she turned the stage into a space of well-choreographed miracle.

I read through the reviews, she had curated to be shared across.

It didn’t take me much time to realize; I had missed out on a real talent, performing live on stage.

Till the eventuality of ‘next time’ resurfaces and she decides to dance on stage, I shall wait.

She is unpredictable.

I know it was not on purpose.

The language is to be blamed. The time is to be held responsible.

During late hours, none of us are at liberty to weigh the impact of words.

I might have overreacted; it seemed so unnecessary the next moment.

Just a word, to think about. In the end, everything remains the same.

She is happiness.

I am sure, she might have repeated the shade of yellow.

Her fondness for that particular color isn’t hidden.

It was her birthday yesterday. She made sure to wear the shade, which always makes her happy.

Our conversations were too thin throughout the day.

But somehow, I left her craving for a cup of tea, just through a menial conversation of mine.

She is trying.

I know, it is not too easy to tolerate someone who has grown unpredictable.

But life needs to be balanced between possibilities and probabilities.

I think someday, she will definitely get the picture right in her mind.

Maybe that day, her anger and her irritation will also settle down.

She is daredevil.

In the toughest of moments, she will end up sending a message, which will guarantee a hefty laugh.

Her approach towards life is so positively driven, I am timelessly greedy to continue seeking inspiration from her.

She is calm.

Storms don’t move her a bit; emotional storms to be precise.

She never reacts. She neither overreacts.

She prays. She prays through days. She prays through nights.

All she has is the one, she gave birth too.

She makes sure, he continues to live his dreams and makes their dreams comes true.

She is clueless.

Guided by wrong people, her mistakes are not to be counted or discussed about.

After a period of time, she is to be forgiven and forgotten.

She is she.

Spending time amidst children with special needs isn’t easy.

But she does it with envious ease.

Through the day all I sensed…  

She is some kind of a mystic medley that surrounds me.

- Virtuous Vociferous | July 27 | July Blog-4 | Making of the beast | 2018