SPEAK LESS SEE MORE EVERYTHING ELSE IS A METAPHOR

The question tonight - To write or to not write?

Given the remnants of the day that never was and the elements of the night that is still young, I choose and dare to write, to write and to absolutely write. 

Having wasted a day in office, I was sure of doing the crazy thing. I mean the crazy thing. No I didn’t run nude, I didn’t woo a girl, I didn’t scream in the middle of the road and neither did I swim alone in a river. Instead I chose to speak less, see more; eventually all the love and hatred around the world turned into metaphors.

Since I had made up my mind to see more, observation had already started seducing me. I chose to walk the entire stretch between my office and home in exile i.e., Pune. The journey lasted for 58 minutes and the observations were truly noteworthy.

So here they are, scoops between woops from my philosophical take - to speak less, see more.

As has become the tradition for the last 45 days, most of us try to avoid the ‘Torture Fluid’ served to us during our office hours. Torture Fluid is the alternative name, I thought of christening our office tea with. Recently we have started dreading it being served in equally dreadful cups. To skip the two time serving of Torture Fluid, we zeroed in on our neighborhood tea stall Lokesh Tea Centre to get our everyday dosage of real tea; served in plastic cups and well-washed glasses. At around 19:05 hours that I ordered for my cup of tea, my eyes fell on an aged man, who seems to be the regular bread supplier to this tea stall. He wore a cap, very typical of the Muslim sect, was dressed in pure white clothes and complemented by an equally white beard. He sat there, eyes closed and his head rested against the wall, which had two contrasting elements to spark a debate between our country being tolerant and intolerant. the wall held the image of an Indian Goddess and a huge Aum being labelled on the wall. At this juncture, I asked myself, who is winning and who is losing? Pat came the reply from within - None. We are all humans, divided not by faith, religion, caste, community, colour, sexuality or creed; but by political vendettas and sick fanatic minds.

My journey had made a good head-start, my feet started moving faster to come across these two kids. They were from the nearby slums. They sat near the feet of their parents, who were badly drunk. Both kids chose to ignore them and seemed to get busy with their cups of tea. The sight of them drinking and enjoying the tea, till the last drop to wet their throats made me feel content; they fueled my inspiration, motivated my thought process and I continued to walk.

The Indian Railways having completed 150+ years and having made Palace on Wheels a famous brand identity served as another inspiration today. Pune being a biker’s paradise and a car owner's nightmare, half of the romance takes place over the seat of two wheelers. I therefore wish to tag this part of my observation as LOVE ON WHEELS. The women, dressed as terrorists will never be recognised; no matter with whom they are tom-toming with. The men, dressed as humans exude the pride of being with someone. So I came across this couple wherein the guy insisted that the girl sit more closer and hold him tight, while not in motion, so that he could feel her; the closer she is, the better hot and 'set-to-go-wet' he is! The girl instantly agreed. In those 5 minutes that I slackened my pace, I feared that they might famously spark a new trend of Oral and Audible Kama Sutra; now playing on a road near you!

All said and done, as I moved, I found myself standing near a signal. Even before it could grow green, the select few daredevils of Pune accelerated the speed of their bikes. A middle aged man, who passed across me, chose to hurl an abuse at me for being fearless and careless. My crime - I was readying to cross the road because I thought the signal was red. His words - Back off you asshole, is this your dad’s street? My words - Apologies you asshole (The last red-lettered word faded out in multiple honks).

I pride myself of being an iPhone owner. As I came across a fruit vendor, I spotted something interesting. I pulled the iPhone out to click a picture and found the screen idle and hung; destiny and its ugly games, I said. I tried sliding the locked screen; but to no avail. I hoped, I wished someone called. In some previous instances, a call helped unlock the screen. But this time, lady luck had ditched me. I kept walking; now not at a slackened pace, but furiously.

My next stop; Sanjog Pure Veg Restaurant in Mahesh Society, Pune. I placed the order for a plate of eggplant and four thin, oil-free chapatis. At the same time, I used the hotel owner’s phone to call on my number and see my iPhone jump back to life. Just then three college goers entered the restaurant and occupied the table, which was closer to mine. Their conversation; the first girl spoke - In today’s changing times, parents are fine with us wanting to move around with our boyfriends. Girl two spoke - I am worried about my weight. The guy between these two girls - Don’t worry, I told my friends, you are a sexy b@#@# or whatever, whatever. Girl one spoke again - Don’t mind, but your weight makes you really look big and let me say...no, maybe next time. Guy between the girls - I bet you will love me. Girl two - My parents are really concerned about my weight. Guy between the girls - So what should we order then? Diet Coke! Girl two - Have you gone mad? Please order for Pav Bhaaji with cheese over it and yes, the Pav should have extra butter in it. Girl one again - But look at your weight? Girl two - Do you think my breasts look bigger than normal. Guy between girls - Ahh, I need to use the loo. See you shortly!

I was nearing the end of my dinner, a mother-daughter duo walked in. The girl sported a wicked smile. The duo positioned themselves, not very far from the table that I was seated at. The girl’s eyes moved to and fro between me and her mother. Since I had asked the waiter to bring the bill, I walked towards the basin, washed my hand and made it back to the table to pay. I must say, I was lucky to have eavesdropped. I heard the mother say, “Once upon a time, your father too sported a handle mustache and I am surprised to see a modern guy sport it today.” The daughter wasted no time to add, “You know mamma, I think he is a pucca Bengali, his kurta is batik, his hair oiled and combed… there, there look at his Jhola, definitely communist.” I paid the bill, smiled over the conversation, walked out of the restaurant and pulled out my phone (let me repeat, I pulled out my iPhone) to speak to my mom. After the conversation got over and my mom blessed me, I turned to walk a little ahead to my home. The same girl of the mother-daughter duo walked out of the restaurant to fetch something from her black colored Honda Activa parked closeby. I had taken my first step and I heard someone call out to me in a soft voice, “Excuse me”. I turned my gaze and saw the same girl actually calling out to me. In a curious tone, I inquired, “Yes?” Excited and apprehensive, she spoke, “If you don’t mind, may I ask you a question” I replied, “Go ahead”. The girl spoke again, “You are a Bengali na and this kurta, this Batik kurta of yours is from Kolkata, right” I concluded, “Yes, you are”. Hardly 90 seconds into the conversation, the mother emerged and before we can reach any conclusion, the daughter yelled, “Look mom, I told you, the Batik kurta is from Kolkata.” So what was the point of this conversation? The Batik kurta is from Kolkata. I bet, it is!

As I look back at my entire day of events, barring the asshole-minded, no do-gooders in the office (except our team of writers); the evening fared better. And I think, I earned some brownie points by reimposing the thought of L.O.L - Listen Observe Learn.

To sum it up - Speak Less, See More; Everything Else is a METAPHOR.

-vociferous

FIVE ROUNDS AND FOR A FEW ROUNDS MORE

My experience as that of on June 30, 2014

Another day. Another morning. Slipping into my sport shoes. I was out there. Unlike 5.30 AM, I hit the ground at 5.45 AM. The mind, the soul and I were in no mood to rush. Interestingly I’ve been thinking rather more calmly during Monday mornings. Every subsequent Monday has been the same routine stuff. Reaching office by 9 AM. Subjecting myself to 90 minutes of pure unprofessional banter. And the same old white board, on which is projected a giant Excel sheet with odd figures (no sexual context in there). These figures are confusing. To others these figures are known as job codes. I call them the code of boredom, which spark debates of unusual nature.

Cutting short on the unusual office centric conversation, let me rewind back to my 5.45 AM on-ground appointment. No crows, no birds and no rains, no gains. Usually I love the morning temperatures. Waking up with sweat all over my body, the only activity that promises to calm me down is being out there on the ground. The physical activities, I get indulged in do leave me sweating and gasping for breath. But the trickling drops of sweat also infuse immense energy in my otherwise lethargic body to push for more.

Partly green and largely dry, the ground is where I unleash my sporty side. Last Friday I ended up jogging for three rounds (but not simultaneously). I usually mix my jogging with rapid rounds of walking. Both activities give me immense pleasure. Both activities install in me, an immense power. Today too I did the same; combined jogging with brisk walking and minor doses of stretching. The most satisfying moment was of completing five rounds (again not simultaneously) of jogging. Once again I combined it with walking. So free, so awesome; I felt. Here was I again. The sweat rushed from my head towards the toe, coaxing me to continue running at a well maintained pace. So I ran. Those five rounds reminded me of my good old schooldays, when I was never fond of running. Back then I took specific interest in enrolling for 100 meters of running races. I earned my two minutes of fame on hearing my name being announced. But I never hit the ground. At times, I was seriously so bored of running that I used to wear my black leather shoes, run a bit and stop; citing reasons of being unable to run.

This is where I am today. Running sometimes five rounds, sometimes six and at times just one. There is a mutual understanding between the mornings and me, which makes me jump out of my bed and prepare for the day ahead. I agree, I honestly agree that on most occasions, I am not mentally prepared to step out of my home. But that lovely hue of the arriving morning, makes me do that. The story has changed so much. If I miss my date with early mornings, I feel a part of me unattended for the day.

I am not sure, if these jogging sessions and walking sessions are helping me lose my weight. But I am sure, it is doing a majorly good thing to me. The good thing is about remaining exposed to original, unadulterated mornings. The mornings, which make me a spectator to the divine sounds of nature. The singing of birds, the gradual airplay of trees, the fistful of morning energy and the overdose of natural fun.

Today what seems like five rounds is actually five different opportunities of challenging myself. 

Sometimes running. At times puffing. Mostly running short of my breath, I run. And that definitely is a regaling experience. At the same time, I won’t mind heading for a few rounds more.

Be it the tomorrow or the day beyond, I will still be found completing those five rounds and a few rounds more.

-vociferous

A LETTER FROM THIS MORNING

From the envelope of a bygone night, slipped a lettercovered with bits and parts of humid clouds; written in words of a uniquelanguage called dawn. Raising the curtain and gently pushing the sliding windowto its right side; I stood near the window. I was breathing in, yet anothermorning. I went back to the letter, which guided me to follow my heart.

Before I could begin, my heart had already proceeded towardsthe terrains; I might not have endeavoured to tread into. Here I was in an otherwisedifferent morning; starting from zero, eager to discover yet another Mondaymorning. Today instead of heading towards the local playground, I chose to walkacross the road that encircles our colony. At 5.30 AM, when doors remainedlocked from within and neighbours were busy dreaming; I had started walking,seeking freedom. But I still failed to match steps with my mighty mom, whooutdoes me any day, anywhere, any time. I really don’t see it as competition,but definitely is a benchmark to follow her (like I’ve done all these years).

The skies wore a new look. A cross between crimson red, paleblue and a distinct grey; the skies seemed to be narrating a story, straightout of Christopher Nolan’s cinematic art diary. I must confess, I couldn’t havemissed mentioning one of my favourite director’s name. As I walked beneath thesky, fixing my eyes on the road that I was walking on; I realized that theGulmohar trees were shedding less floral weight than they were busy doing, afew days back. If last evening’s discussion is to be believed, Mom was of theopinion that they have bloomed well and now that they have started shedding alltheir floral beauty; monsoons might be just round the corner.

Though highly hydrated, my throat still succumbed toexcessive dryness; maybe because of excessive sweating. To be honest, I wassweating the whole of last night. One ceiling fan failed to deliver the luxury;we anticipated. The absence of the table fan, which acts as a bonus option…wassomehow left unattended in the kitchen. There was no way, I could have imaginedless about what lay ahead. I must have walked a few extra miles and my jersey resembleda just-drenched napkin. I had to avoid jogging today, due to two reasons – 1) Iwas lazy, 2) I was lazy to jog. Finding no reason to cite, I continued walking.

The calm of the morning remained undisturbed till a bunch ofstray dogs took it upon themselves to infuse barks, and derailed the sereneenvirons. I found a new bunch of these four legged beasts, chasing the oldbunch out of their preoccupied/conquered areas. That means from tomorrow, thecar tyres will bathe in fresh stock of liquid spray (with sufficient dose ofdog odour in it). These dogs have been bathing the tyres of my car, ever since itwas driven home.

Having arranged my attire, the book I wished to read duringmy journey and the laptop (I never wish to carry back home from office); I wasa bit less worried about going back home early. But I succumbed to thirst and exhaustion.Why had the climate turned so nasty? I think the presence of some invisible andsome visible clouds, made it worse than we had not expected it to be.

As I continued walking, I continued reading through theletter. It seemed to prompt me about my ever inflating waistline. I did try toapologize to it. But somehow the first stringent demand, it placed was to goback to my old pair of skipping rope and continue jumping over it; tillmonsoons announced its moist arrival.

I am sure there will be another letter that will get posted tomorrowmorning. But will there be a little greener grass on the playground? Will therebe a little bit of happy twilight tomorrow?

And where is the letter? Well that was just an imagination,which inspired me to wake up and begin with yet another Monday morning! 

-vociferous

BREATHING THROUGH THE MORNING

I can’t resign from the fact that our place lacks the basic facilities of a fitness gym, a swimming pool, a jogger’s park and many more. But time and again, I also give in easily to the realization that this place of my current residence boasts of an innocence; I fail to experience in other abused/overused parts of the maximum city. At the same time I don’t want to create an opinion about other parts of Mumbai. Every place within Mumbai continues to be significant because of its many pros and cons. Many a times, an insane thought definitely crosses my mind to go back to the place; I was born at and grew up in. But somewhere deep within resonates a voice – Don’t compromise on the innocence of this place. And I continue to live, I continue breathing through the morning.

At around 5.30 AM, it seemed to be sufficiently dark. To begin with, I felt more private and more to myself while I headed straight towards the playground. From a distance, I could hear dogs barking at a lunatic, who seemed to be headed towards a bush nearby. There was not much to be bothered on that front. After seven years of my splendid stay at the same place, I now know very well what lies beyond those bushes. The municipal authorities had tried their level best to cleanse these bushes. But they found it economical to retain the natural setting for the homeless to defecate. Quite interestingly these bushes are located right behind a temple, which some say is aged beyond 1000 years.

Surrounded by silence, darkness and oneness; my feet took me to undiscovered places around the playground. Right at the entrance of this playground, to the left is located a (now dilapidated) fitness gym. To my knowledge, I never found any great muscles inside. Every time I took to walking near it, I had seen it in utter darkness. There used to be some mirrors, few dumbbells, weight bars and a bad stink around it. The guys who used to come visiting were driven by two important hobbies of killing mosquitoes and eyeing the females who attended the morning walk sessions at the playground. Surprisingly some romantic inclinations, led to impromptu morning romances too. To my surprise, just like the (now forgotten) formation of Jogger’s Park, the gym seemed to be lost in oblivion. On enquiring with a veteran, whom I have found walking here, ever since I started making my way to the playground; clarified that due to lack of funds there was no way how one could have maintained the gym. Was it maintained ever? I enquired. To which, he raised his eyebrows and replied – At times, it was.

The darkness persisted. But the level of oxygen seemed to have gone up. There was no particular odour to feel bothered about. The same couple made a repeat appearance today. The prolonged darkness seemed to have added to their courage to grow a little more physical today. Ignoring their unmentionable actions, I made an attempt at jogging. But I am sorry, I should not think of jogging for another ten days. The body and mind are yet not ready for heavy duty physicality. How I wish, we had a good gym in place? We do have a gym in place. There are around three to four gyms. But all of them enjoy an invisible existence. How I wish, we had a swimming pool to chill in? There used to be one around. But the repeated water cuts and endless pursuits of land sharks reduced it to a puddle. Only tadpoles swim in a puddle. Humans go to water parks. But I am not a fan of the two or three water resorts located a few kilometres away from the place, we live in. They are infested with too many humans and their ugly habits.

But for once I chose to ignore everything around me. I chose to also ignore the things that were absent around me. I concentrated on the things that we were in possession of. The first thing that struck my mind was the presence of this silence. So beautiful is its presence. Nothing interrupts it. Absolutely nothing. There are residential buildings located around. Everyone is awake early for the single purpose to start traveling to their workplaces. But neither does a conflict between bangles or gossips between vessels seem to challenge the silence, we imbibe peace from. For a moment, the dogs do tend to go overboard with their barking habit. But after a certain period, even they calm down.

After celebrating the silence, it was time to enjoy breathing in, inhaling the pristine air. No smoke from factory chimneys, no smoke from vehicles and no smoke from the food cooked in kitchens. Absolutely nothing could disturb the virgin quality of this air that we inhale every morning. Every day that I retire to bed to not wake up early in the morning, I actually close my eyes with a heavy determination to wake up, never ever late than 5.15 AM in the morning.

The morning or the mornings that I talk about are very special to me. I think so, I desperately try to discover a little bit of my hometown in these mornings. I am speaking of no other hometown but Kolkata. I know it is rather foolish to find Kolkata in Mumbai. Or to even imagine Mumbai in Kolkata. But these lovely mornings, transport me to the unscathed memories I hold of Jhargram, Jamshedpur, Bhatpara and Madral. These lovely mornings continue to help me maintain my sanity. These lovely mornings continue to help me stay inspired and motivated.

Every morning is so intense that even when I sit down to write about them at around 3.30 PM during a sun bathed mid noon, I can reiterate the experience. The only difference being that this experience is narrated through my chosen set of words. Once again, I sign off by only imagining about breathing through another morning, another day.

-vociferous

WHEN I WENT BACK TO THE MORNING

‘Apur Panchali’, directed by Kaushik Ganguly; is a Bengali movie about which I wish to write on my other blog www.urbansurprise.blogspot.in. But I wish to write about what it did to me last evening. In the movie, I found a page of a morning; I hadn’t turned over for days together. But why do I owe something about a morning to a movie, I fell in love with. The movie reminded me of something called life. It made me realize that what if I don’t own up to life today, will there be a tomorrow left for me to do so?

Taking a page of inspiration from the movie, I start writing about a morning; I took very long to go back to since January 18, 2014. After four months and almost on the same day or a day later of the last time; I wrote about my morning sojourns; I settle down to pen down my thoughts of a seamless morning.

At around 5.15 AM, the alarm went off; just like it does on other days. Except on Saturdays and Sundays, when I wish to wake up at leisure (in this case means 6.30 PM). Being an early riser, I’ve always been fond of mornings. For the last few months, I had either given the opportunity a miss. Or maybe I had grown a little lazier.

The titillating feeling to slip into my sports shoes was just leaving me restless. Therefore at around 5.45 AM, I stepped out to be greeted by a carpet of Gulmohar flowers. The tree seemed to have shed these flowers, to mark this occasion as a significant one. I hate to step on flowers. But the flowers were dry enough and making up my mind to clean the street would had been a lost effort. Every second later, a new flower kissed the ground after extricating itself from the tree above. I wasn’t carrying my mobile (which I never do while going on a Morning walk) and neither was I holding a camera. Therefore I missed this opportunity of capturing this red carpet of Gulmohar flowers, spread across to make my morning walk seem very special. Crossing a few more yards and having scaled the tarred road of our colony, I reached the unattended playground to extend my walking session to a wider span of an extra 15 minutes.

The playground wore an abandoned look. Even though the summer vacations are on, kids were nowhere to be seen and neither were their parents. At around 6.15 AM, there were a handful of disinterested senior citizens, a middle aged lady and a romancing couple. After I joined, we brought the number to three senior citizens, one middle aged lady, two people in love and me; a total of 7 to be precise. As I continued walking around the playground, I was amazed to see how the couple was reacting to this newly found privacy. In the fifteen minutes that I walked passed them, I found them playing badminton. After badminton they chose to walk barefoot on a scarce piece of grass patch. In the last five minutes they chose to hug and catch a nano smooch before they could depart. Cut to the three senior citizens and none of them could stop at debating between Narendra Modi’s landmark win and Congress’s landslide. The middle aged lady might be somewhere close to fifty five. But her fast-walking like slow jog inspired me to make a point to live these mornings or reclaim them with dignity.

Sensing that I might get delayed to spend yet another unproductive Monday in the confines of my not-so-ad-agency kind of an agency; I prepared to bid adieu to the playground. As I readied to exit, I found the board of a long proposed Joggers Park lying in a tattered condition. This was the same club, for which some people had toed around me to opt for a membership. Today none of those who were trying to promote it, were to be seen in the playground. I arrived at a conclusion that the plans might not have gone down well with the Municipal authorities.

As a regular practice, I looked up to the skies to offer a prayer to Sun God. Today Mr.Sun too seemed to be on vacation. The skies wore a jacket of cloud (which it still continues to wear at 11.45 AM, while I am staring blankly out of my cubicle’s window). The mood of this Monday seemed sober. Therefore I signalled my feet to walk me back home.

The school, which falls to my left while walking back home is closed for summer vacations. So the classrooms echoed silence. The bell which rings between changes of periods was covered under a thick layer of dust. The caretaker who usually unlocks the main gate of the school was sitting on one of its stairs to pay heed to some chores that might be left undone on a functional day.

On a Monday when everything seemed so still and so lifeless, there was so much life back home. Mom was back carrying her favourite flowers. She is back after spending a healthy three months in Kolkata. My sweetheart was already dreaming of a Monday that should have never come. And my mom’s aunt who has come down to visit us was already up, offering her prayers to the Divine.

But on a personal level, I feel happy that when I went back to the morning, I came back with the same feeling that there are experiences; innumerable experiences to be written about. In few days from now, the sky might open up and the Rain Gods will unleash its fury. I am unsure if the mornings will be the same or free enough for me to take the walk. But whenever I will get the time, I will continue going back to the morning and keep writing about these mornings, when I go totally footloose.

-vociferous 

IN BETWEEN MORNINGS

2.45 AM might seem weird. A little strange! A lot more insane! But definitely an incredible hour for me! I am in the venerated company of my imaginations of a morning, predicted to arrive any moment. This morning is no ordinary morning. It is a Sunday morning. A morning when the body psychologically wishes to stay pinned deep in the bed but its physical ideas beg to differ. I would say that I am not lucky enough. In my professional years or personal years of accidental encounters, I can recollect only a handful of Saturdays that I went partying the night out. I think it could be the company of friends, I kept which didn’t help me in developing obnoxious habits of leaving on a Saturday afternoon and arrive back home by a dying Sunday evening. Our families had some rules and we followed it with our eyes wide open. Now that we are grownups, married or still bachelors, earning and yearning for more; we are still bound by rules.

The rule that I love to abide by is to never miss the mornings. Between the very first mornings of 2014, January 6 and some more lately were reported to be the coldest, our city had ever experienced. I found it absolutely unbelievable myself. I had never gone out jogging, wearing a sweater. I had never stepped out concealing my ears, with a woolen cap. I see my mom wrap herself in a shawl, from top to bottom, seeming to be on an undercover mission to gather the greens and reds from the plants in our neighborhood for divine offerings. I see my sweetheart; hiding in a pink colored sweater and never wanting to liberate from its woolen confines. And then there is me, wandering in between mornings. Sometimes staring at the nearby school and sometimes pausing myself while the National Anthem is being sung. There are two schools in our vicinity. One proclaims to be an English medium school but whatever I have overheard from the sound waves traveling out of the classrooms, might be bad news for the future of students. The other school seems like a compromise between the aspiration of being a partly Marathi and partly ending up being a Hindi medium school. There is a vast level of disciplinary difference too between these schools. In between mornings, I have started taking keen interest in distinguishing the two schools.

The kids coming to the English medium school are always in a hurry to make it to the school before the first bell goes off. But the kids going to the other school simply sleep walk. Their parents keep them entertained with folklore from hinterlands, they might never ever visit. And I find them caught in a direct conflict with teachers. I love to experience such drastic differences during mornings.

One of my closest friends asked me recently – Why do you wake up so early?

I replied – For Happy Hours.

Mornings come with their own share of Happy Hours. These Happy Hours don’t serve beer at half prices nor do they make fake promises. These Happy Hours help in feeling relaxed. Take for instance the morning of January 14. On the occasion of Makar Sankranti, in the early hours of yet another morning; I heard the prayers of a temple merge with the echoes of an azan from a mosque. I heard the church bell ring in the background. If this seemed like a divine intervention to realize secularism, I was being a witness to it.   

To be honest, I addictively look forward to every morning. I am enjoying this addiction. Maybe the mornings are growing better with the kind of things, I see around me. I see teachers and talk to them. I see students and walk with them. I see seniors and help them. To every morning that I wake up, I feel indebted for the infinite experiences; they leave me feeling rich with.

For over five days, during every morning that I have been taking giant steps, I have been keeping a close watch on a stray dog. This dog is trying to make new friends. He slowly trespasses boundaries, lifts its leg and bathes the rear wheel of our car. I try to shoo it off by just yelling at it and at times acting to hurl a stone at it. The four legged thing, runs a few yards and returns back to repeat the same mischief. Seeing him mark his area, the dogs in our colony have gone berserk. All of them have been making generous offerings of their liquid remains on the wheels of our car. I only hope that they don’t take a unanimous decision to start watering our plants.

Apart from dogs, during mornings I see cows, donkeys, crows and cats; busy with their own chores. I think the cats are born lucky. All the odd and even breeds of cats have found a good refuge in our neighboring three homes. Our immediate neighbor feeds them with fish every day. To make their bones grow strong, they are also fed milk and other resistance enhancing potions. These cats walk on the asbestos sheets, sleep on the hoods of cars and get into ugly tiffs over matters of pride and prejudice. There are black cats, browns, whites and yellow too. One of the male cats is a serial dater. He always preys on the newcomers in the colony. But I think his charm in the world of cats-with-claws helps him continue being the Emran Hashmi among all.

In the mornings where I see dogs getting competitive and cats getting obsessive, I also see the cows. They seem to be in no mood of a competition. Every cow walks like a mafia don, chewing an invisible something in their mouths and pushing its face; deep into the unclaimed bins of doom. The crows on the other end have grown extremely notorious. They have started puncturing the calm of early mornings by starting to caw caw from as early as 2:30 AM.

But the sweetness of mornings is not lost. I wonder if all Indian mornings are this beautiful! I wonder how the International mornings maybe. In between mornings, I jog out in search of imaginations, inspirations and interests to support my personal writing. These mornings provide me strength to fight all odds. These mornings help me to dream about all evens.

In between mornings, I live my own mornings by becoming one through prayers and offerings to the Supreme Divine.

3.45 AM might seem weird. A little strange! A lot more insane! But definitely an incredible beginning of an interesting Sunday morning of Happy Hours for me, The communicationist, A hungry writer, A thirsty writer, An observant, A speaker, A listener, A singer at times, An untimed photographer, A Train Spotter Updater and now (almost) A historian of early mornings.

-vociferous

ANOTHER MORNING, ANOTHER BEGINNING

In another four hours, I have an appointment with yet another morning. Every morning means a new beginning for me. None of my mornings have been bad ever. I am of the opinion that it is during early hours of mornings; we can nebulously feel the presence of GOD around us. Or should I say that I personally try to interpret God in the many things that surround me. 

We being in the middle of December, the temperatures are taking us on a roller-coaster ride. From chilling to freezing and at times leaving us numb, the winter is yet another lovely creation of God. The first thing (after getting free of the natural chores) I do is to slip my feet into my sports shoes. At the same time I enjoy the obsession of never climbing down the stairs normally. I make it a point to sprint downwards. Is it risky? Over a period of time, it has become my forte but I did have my share of great falls. After hitting ground zero, I unlock the main gate of our home. The white Zen Estilo vxi parked to the left of the gate belongs to us. I run my hand over its hood. All I get to feel is joy. The joy of feeling the wetness of dewdrops is so divine that I fall short of words to describe that moment of short lived pleasure. But any kind of pleasure at that moment of the day is God gifted.

In another four hours, I will see the same faces who will act as members of the beeline to the nearby school. These faces arrive as students, teachers, parents, escapists, learners, critics and authoritarians. The first bell shall go off and once again the Indian National Anthem penned by Rabindranath Tagore will be sung in tender voices. The echo of which will make me stop at the same place that I stop at, every morning. After the anthem is done and the prayers are over, I will begin with my brisk jogging. My feet will pace up and down the partly tarred, partly destroyed, partly controversial or partly scandalised road. I will start sweating. But like every day, I will not feel insecure about bouts of dehydration. I will start running, walking and jumping a bit to yet make a miserable attempt at shedding some kilos. These kilos are both precious and concerning. I regard these extra kilos precious because they have always stayed with me. I tag them concerning because the more I run, the more I ignore the intake of disorganized temptations, which continue to keep me in the same shape that I’ve remained in for the last many good months, days or years.

The same song will jump out of the music system. My personal favourite has been Rockstar’s Tum Ho or Barfi’s Phir Le Aaya Dil. Every morning I’ve followed the rule of playing the music system to not just listen to the music but keep my Sony Hi-Fi in good health. Too much of rest makes it grow lazy. As a result, the songs get stuck somewhere in the middle. The CDs start acting crazy. Early mornings are not meant for craziness. Mornings are meant for goodness. Face to face and toe to toe, it has to be goodness.

I will find myself sweating a bit. But I will not like to use the napkin dangling from somewhere in between my waist and something else that never goes waste. Another morning, another beginning awaits me; in a few hours from now.

Mornings, I love them. There is no politics involved in mornings. Aam Aadmi Party is not fighting against BJP and Congress (for once) is not staking a claim for giving Indians these mornings. During mornings, office never interrupts my thoughts. During mornings, the bitches (oops…will that represent some kind of sexual comment) are found asleep. When I talk about bitches, I am talking about the real bitches (definitely the four legged ones). They bark, they bite and they also chase cars at times. Mornings, I love them for the reason that there is no question of duplication of experiences. Every morning stands different from each other. And yet there is always a new beginning to be a part of.

Oh yes. Did I say? Mornings erase every possibility of thinking about the cribbers at workplaces who are good at fuelling inter-colleague rumour competitions. They are really good at it. But mornings make me forget such assholes. The only hole that bothers me is the pothole. No other holes come to my mind, when I am in the good company of not one particular morning but multiple mornings.

I have once again set the alarm to 6:15 am. But I can’t beat my mom. I never thought of competing with her ever. She is up before me, tending to the plants in our garden or plucking flowers to be offered to God. She comes back to tell me the lovely experiences she had with the flora and fauna around us. At the same time, I feel very happy to see my warmth filled love to experience every morning in a completely different way. All the sleep that is advised to normal human beings, she does full justice to it. I am not an insomniac. But I can never imitate or follow the healthy sleep schedule that she follows.

The same middle aged man will ask me to skip for him. The same kid will walk alongside his mother, followed by their two pet dogs to the school. The same teacher will smile at me for greeting her with a childlike gesture – Good Morning Teacher. The same school bus driver will inquire with me about the mileage of my car, the journeys I might have taken and whether I am getting our car serviced at regular intervals.

One packet of milk will be left back at my uncle’s place downstairs. The newspaper delivery boy will just throw the paper inside. The rolled piece of shared knowledge will both hit against a wall and land at the same place that it is found every morning. I will come back, give our car a second look and chase few more dogs with a piece of stone in my hand. I can’t tolerate dogs, which raise their legs to make any wheel of my car; their public toilet.

I will take the stairs up. Get rid of the sports shoes. I will walk in. I will pour myself a glassful of water. I will add to it my favourite glucose powder. I will walk back to the veranda. I will stare at the sun and wink.

I will begin the day and salute the morning. Because every morning is a new beginning to learn, survive and think of success. Here comes – Another Morning, Another Beginning.

-vociferous 

FUNATHON ON A SUNDAY

The Sunday July 8, 2012 was no ordinary Sunday. Making it even more extraordinary was the alarm I had set on my mobile phone (oh yes… gone are the days of alarm clocks). Being a suburban resident of Mumbai, it was mandatory for me to wake up early and leave at the earliest to simply avoid the precious gift Central Railway bestows on us on almost all Sundays. Fondly referred to by the railway authorities as ‘Mega Block’ to carry out rectifications on outraged overhead wires, heal wounds of miserably fractured tracks and drive the trains to not-so-parlor like crashed for fake pampering… the ‘Mega Block’ is a sheer nightmare. It derails the Sunday life of citizens planning to travel to various destinations on a holiday. Therefore I was in no mood to get stuck somewhere in the middle and accelerated.

After a quick bath, lucky prayers and skipping my favorite Sunday breakfast of two egged omelet; I stormed into the first class compartment of the 7.36 a.m. Mumbai CST bound local. In solitude and all by myself, flipping through the pages of Timeout Explorer (Launch Issue), I wandered with monks through the lanes of Sikkim, tried my luck with the Tongba (a rare beer) served to me in bamboo containers at Kalimpong, enjoyed the aroma of Darjeeling tea, jammed with the JJI Exile Brothers in Mcleod Ganj, checked into a sanctuary of donkeys in Leh and braved the weather & terrain of Spiti. Engrossed and engaged, I didn’t realize that my train had entered Mumbai CST. I took the subway, crossed the road, passed McDonald’s, entered the first few arches of Fort and stepped straight into the British era lift of Kitab Mahal. Bidding farewell to it on 3^rd floor, I once again entered the paradise like Studio X on 4^th floor to attend the second day session of Travel Writing workshop. As if the organizers were aware in advance, the breakfast was kept ready way before 9.30 a.m. I had a wonderful time downing at least 10 micro idlis with the regular coconut chutneys giving delightful company. Hot coffee helped me release the last ounce of laziness hidden in some inactive corners of my body.

Students in place, the professor walked in. More joyous, more excited and dressed in a yellow t-shirt tucked neatly in blue denim, Dilip D’Souza walked in. Like Saturday the ritual of mobile donation in fish bowl was reiterated. And then the harmonica touched his mouth. Melody filled the room. The ‘wow’ factor was high. Dilip had already injected the ‘wow’ on Saturday into our veins and it was running a happy marathon within. The beginning was triggered by writing answers to some questions on four sheets of carefully stapled papers. Dilip asked us about the homework? Almost everyone raised their hands to confirm, it was done.

Kaushik Chatterjee enthralled the class by narrating his rewritten story on Vizag and literally painted a canvas of pale yellow butterflies forming a rising cloud. Not everyone ended up reading at the same time. Dilip adapted to a unique format of allowing the narrations to intersperse with his gems of wisdom. All of us attending were sure to the core that Dilip was in no mood to allow lethargy crawl into your minds and bodies. After all it was a Sunday. He sent us all out on a second expedition. This was the first in series of two expeditions that he took us on for the day. Like kindergarten kids running out of a school to smell freedom, we were all out wandering in a scattered manner. 

Dilip had assigned us the task of observing our surroundings and making note of anything and everything that caught our attention. This was to drive home the point that travel writing is also about having an eye for details. In my case, I spotted a dog secretly seeking refuge beneath the bed sheet of his human companion. Deepa took note of the scribble on the wall that actually directed to a nonexistent toilet. And even more interesting was her narration about the ripped nameplates, tightly shut doors, people abandoning the building. Her knowledge also brought one important fact to our notice that there was indeed a time in the past when Kitab Mahal was engulfed by an uncontrollable fire. It was during this time that many had locked the doors and disappeared. Someone made note about an almost invisible Portasia cyber café. At least four of us noticed ‘IF GOD BE FOR US WHO CAN BE AGAINST US’ written above the signboard of Café Shaheen. A mosaic of similarities, marvels, amusement and disagreement took the Centre Stage. 

The stories started arriving one by one. Nivedita made a remarkable observation of Kitab Mahal being a haunted house and flung Nancy Drew right in the middle of our conversation, detecting the surroundings. Applauded and appreciated, Saurav painted a much more intense picture of his observations. His mention of a revolving chair that might spark revolutions reminded me of that once scene from Baazigar in which Shahrukh Khan recollects his childhood trauma and hatches a ghastly revenge plan against his tormentor. The senior lady sitting to my left took us closer to the literal meaning of Kitab Mahal as the ‘palace of books’ but with no books on display or sale. Gokul’s keenness to observe pushed us straight to the fourth floor like a thriller novel. He saw the tattered board of a CBI office that had once upon a time operated from the premises of Kitab Mahal. He made us enter the building like an accused, who first glanced at the walls and caught a glimpse of the God pictured tiles plastered on walls to pray and plead innocence. The dangling wires making the accused repent about his wrong doings. The final arrival on the fourth floor, facing a wall full of Xs confirming his faith that everything had gone wrong to put an end to his journey. A new girl who joined in for the second session spiced her observations by keeping it rusting through her mentions of panwallahs and sugarcane juicewallahs. She was bright. I wish she had added more, had she been there on Saturday (the CDwallahs, recordwallahs would had been much more enjoyable).

Dilip took us through this unfolding kind of an experience of writing, reading, discussing, debating, reviewing, criticizing and opinionating. He wanted all of us to open up. It was evident; this was no classroom of silence but an arena of voices. He was not letting the spirit to wither. He kept it alive. I am not boasting about him. But he made us feel like being on a travel through a book, we read, we wrote. The best thing, everyone got to read and write. A quite little girl narrated her experience of scuba diving and the very next moment I wanted to literally go scuba diving. The Kashmir story narrated by the tall female in red top from Bangalore made me relate to it like a scene from The Hurt Locker. The story broke the stereotypes. Besides it sparked a debate about breaking stereotypes. Janita came gate crashing with her anecdote from the heartland of Manaus. I narrated a situation from monsoon strewn Kolkata in mid June. Kaushik was the first to launch a spear into that story while Deepa’s comments arrived like a knockout punch. But there was no reason to feel bad or demoralized. Dilip had succeeded in making us realize that writing is also about accepting its limitations, surpassing boundaries and keeping it simple to relate to. My story had so much Kolkata and so much Bengali in it that a certain Mr. Sharma from Delhi could have run a little insane after alighting near Howrah Bridge.

The fun didn’t end there. Dilip pushed us out of the classroom in pursuit of a statue of a dog. Believe it or not, we all might have walked on the footbath beside Bombay Gymkhana and never could have taken note of the dog statue on right. We were stumped. Both dog lovers and non dog lovers stood gaping at the statue. We were all awestruck. Dilip stood quietly behind us and smiled over the fact that his students were fresher’s in true sense, all eager to make the dream of being a Travel Writer come true soon some day.

Stories, anecdotes, leads, narrations, rewriting, observations… the most enjoyable deluge of knowledge had left us thirsty for more. No one seemed to be in a mood to check the time in their watches. But it was ticking fast. In the last two days, Dilip had built a family and become the head of it. This huge family of aspiring travel writers had already started networking by exchanging numbers, email ids, web ids, office addresses, facebook identities, photolinks and what not.

The session finally drew to a conclusion. A girl in white top conveyed the vote of thanks to Dilip D’Souza for having agreed to conduct this workshop. She congratulated the participants for being a lovely group with fresh ideas and also the lucky chosen ones. She wrapped up by stating that we should just wait and watch there is yet a lot more to come. The feedback forms were distributed, filled and collected back. Dilip D’Souza invited us with our questions. And he answered them all with an enviable ease in his tone, demeanor and expressions. Through the workshop, he pumped into us an infectious amount of confidence that shall not die down with the onslaught of testing times. When we were asked to speak a few words in the honor of the guest lecturer and the session, I grabbed the mike and poured my heart out. I held no inhibitions to share with everyone in that classroom, about my insecurities that were shooed off to a bay by Dilip’s wonderful words. A stage had arrived in my life when I had stopped reading, writing, blogging or facebooking… The everyday struggle within the confines of an unexcited office had rendered my mind lifeless. Dilip made it jump back to life. He made the heart beat faster and all I walked back home with were the words of his wisdom:

• Write/ Rewrite
• Carry a small notepad in your pocket
• Anecdotes are like item numbers
• Observe everything and don’t forget to take notes
• Be creative
• Indulge your reader
• Continue with wild imaginations
• Analyze your writing
• Hit the road, touch the skies, swim through waters and enjoy Travel Writing…

Out of the Kitab Mahal, I strode across to Mumbai CST again in a hope to join this family again someday on a trip to a forgotten island of memories. And then come back to Kitab Mahal, call up Dilip D’Souza and tell him, “We have not one but 100 odd travel stories from a single island to be told to you. Would you mind joining us again for a session of writing, rewriting and of course travel writing?”

In a mood to raise a toast to Dilip D’Souza, Avid Learning, Studio X and the entire crew; I wish to sign off quoting Moslih Eddin Saadi - ″A traveler without observation is a bird without wings.”

-vociferous 

Commented upon by Mr Dilip D'souza himself:

July 10, 2012 at 5:44 AM

You're really extraordinarily kind, Mr P! I thoroughly enjoyed being with all of you and listening to your stories. Thanks for being so attentive and willing to share. Made it such an enjoyable couple of days for me.

A VERY SPECIAL SATURDAY

The beginning points

We are originally from the Sindh and I was born in Pakistan. But I can never go back there – She stated with mild moistness in the corner of her two eyes.

For the last four generations we have been living in this city. I think the real journey, is the journey within. I want to go back to my home town Kutch. I want to discover the barren land, the rugged landscape, the rustic ambience. I think, I am in pursuit of me – Every expression of hers was noteworthy. She could make all of us feel that our roots matter to us.

Navy has given me my better days – He said with immense pleasure in his voice. He is a doctor by profession but has served in the Indian Navy or perhaps still associated. I am not quite sure.

I have written a lot and my writings have got published. But I regret to mention out here that none of my travel articles have got published – He is all of sixty but with a childlike enthusiasm in him. He holds no qualms of sitting along with other participants who are younger than him.

I am a closet writer – I remember her name clearly. She is Deepa. I confided into her that she is the third Deepa, I have come across in my life. She smiled.

I find a lot of mystery in there – He said with an innocent smile. He is an architect by profession. Travels extensively and had lots to share.

Manali is very much like a high school romance – Staring across every participant, she made it sure she made herself heard.

I am not interested in the tombstones, I am interested more in the casinos and massage parlors in Macau – He was blunt in his demeanor and views.

Hi – She was the first to interact with me. The colorful necklace of beads around her neck made her look even more gracious. She was born in America and now lives in Bandra.

I am a freelance writer – She introduced herself calmly after traveling all the way down from Breach Candy. We shared our common views over how freelancing is like treading on uncertain premises.

And this is how she died… concluded the guide – The red color that she was dressed in made her stand out on a dull and cloudy day. She was talking of an expedition to the hill station of Matheran.

I don’t want to be a professional writer. But I want to do travel writing for my kids, who will enjoy reading what I have written for them – She shared wonderful things while we were having coffee. She was very much interested to know what blogging is all about.

Yes we are neighbors – Answered the green eyed girl.

Everything I have reproduced above is strictly no fiction stuff but real people and what they shared at the Travel Writing Workshop held at Studio X Mumbai, Kitab Mahal.

I had the privilege of being a part of it. I was a part of the group which had milestones shining in their eyes. All of them spoke with lot of conviction. Extremely passionate about traveling and well read, they were here to learn the nuances of Travel Writing from none other than Dilip D’Souza.

Sparking the conversation

Selected and awarded the best author and writer by The Daily Beast award in New York on June 20, 2012; Dilip D’Souza has been writing amazingly for the last many years. He writes a column on mathematics in the mint edition of HT Lounge. He has three books to his credit. I am dying to own a copy of ‘Roadrunner’. He wore a dark blue cotton shirt with white leaves on it, tucked neatly in his denim jeans. Being an established writer himself, Dilip knows how to hold the interest of his audience. After he walked into the hall where a group of 20 odd people were seated, he requested us to surrender our mobiles in the two bowls he circulated all over. Secondly he warned us all that if possibly any of the mobile phones were not put on silent mode and it rung in the midst of a lecture, he would answer that call. And he will inform the caller that the owner of that mobile phone has been admitted to the hospital. He had us in splits. He lived up to his promise by actually answering a call and speaking aloud – OH YES! HE IS IN THE HOSPITAL.

Dilip D’Souza then pulled out a harmonica from his pouch and played the lovely song –

Aye Dil Hai Mushkeel Jeena Yahan,

Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan…

And thus began a workshop that will spill over to the Sunday. He asked us to introduce ourselves. Post the introductory round, he asked us to write in just five lines about our experience of a place we had recently and loved the most.

No one shied away. Everyone wrote. Some stories were amazing. Some had the potential to transform into amazing writers. Dilip made every writer read out his experience, which was followed up by one-to-one interactions. Dilip asked everybody to be as communicative as possible. Before breaking out for lunch, he drew a rough sketch of a place he wanted us to visit and discover a wonder.

We ventured out in heavy rains, not worrying about getting wet. Following the route that Dilip had explained, we reached the point of discovery. We came back with amazing memories of what we saw inside a shed made of banned asbestos sheets. On our return, we were again asked to write about. Everyone was allowed to share his or her opinion over it. Sheer marvels emerged out of the written pieces.

Playing the song… Again!

I lent my voice to croon – Hai Apna Dil Toh Awara..Na Jaane Kispe Aayega. Dilip played his harmonica with much more enthusiasm. We were done with lunch. But not for once did we feel the pangs of drowsiness. Dilip kept us excited. This time the session got more interesting. Opinions were vivid. No one was disgruntled if criticism came tumbling down on the stuff written and presented.

Takeaways

After a long time, I truly enjoyed the workshop. Maybe after almost four years, I enrolled for a workshop. Enjoyed every bit of it. Brought home along with me, a copy of Timeout Explorer. Anyone of us, who is chosen to be good in the lot will get an opportunity to write for the Timeout Explorer.

Personally I had not wanted the session to come to an abrupt end. The gentleman sitting beside me seemed to be in a hurry. Dilip’s facial expressions, rightly displayed his disappointment over the attendees leaving in a tizzy.

On any other day, I would have championed the cause of staying back home on a Saturday. But I made an exception. I went ahead to attend the workshop and traveled back with an eagerness to write, rewrite, read and reread to create good stuff.

I just can’t wait for the Sunday to arrive. The second session is out there calling me. Thumbs up to Dilip D’souza for making the workshop extremely special.

I wish in the near future, AVID LEARNING continues to keep us updated over the many other programs.  The first session is over and the second one is beginning in another 9 hours from now. 

This session was held at:

Studio X Mumbai. KitabMahal, 4^th Floor, 192 D. N. Road, Fort, Mumbai-400 001

The above is an account of the first day: July 7, 2012

Time: (Sunny) 10 a.m. to (Cloudy) 5.30 p.m.

Did I mention about the food? 1) Breakfast of Cheese and Veg Sandwiches accompanied by tea/coffee and of course deliciously baked biscuits...

The Lunch: It couldn't have got yummier than this - Pav Bhaaji and the addictive sweet things that followed.

Evening snacks: Tea/Coffee along with some more delicious somethings.

A huge hug to the organizers at the event venue, who kept the continuous supply of coffee, tea and mineral water running... They are not the unsung heroes. But the real heroes behind the scene to keep the show running to a packed house (literally).

The sound system: It was soft. Traveled through the ears... straight into our hearts. And the memories are still alive in the form of voice notes in the mind's core.

 -vociferous