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

MORNING CHATTER – 2

September 27 (Slept and Missed), September 28 & 29, 2k11 >> 90 minutes early morning
Sight, Surprise, Soothing

I am enjoying it thoroughly. My newly found love for my rigorous fitness regimes in the mornings is making me feel better and fresh all day. At this point, I would like to thank my Mom, Prashant & Swati, Rohini, Shanks and Nikita for being vocal about my physique. They didn’t criticize but advised to lose down a bit.

Equally determined I am. So much so that I resisted the temptation of gulping a samosa and tucking in some delicious paanipuris down my throat.

I had already missed the second day of my planned fitness regime – September 27, 2011. Luckily I made up for it by putting in one extra hour of jogging and introducing skipping. Besides I have the dumbbells doing the trick for my biceps.

September 28: The walking session continued as usual only to be faced with something unusual. At a distance, I saw a flock of crows enjoying a grand feast. What didn’t please me was the sight of something, which was unmistakably a dead snake? Approximately measuring 2 feet, it seemed to have been smashed the night before by some careless vehicle driver. Folklores and a little bit of early morning superstition made me stay away from it. The sight was ghastly. The crows were in no mood to leave any part of their big catch. They kept peeling off the skin of the dead snake. As I started walking back home, the dead snake was reduced to one feet. The catch ended up being well distributed. My fitness regime went smoothly. I jogged and I walked and I experienced a gush of freshness.

September 29: I had been immensely missing the skipping part of the regime. It has in the past helped me fight fat and beat weight. Left helpless by an accident and negativity in the month of February 2011 added on to the agony of regaining weight. Finally I am therefore all set to begin with a journey of my newly found love for a fit body. I want my inner metabolism to get stronger.

A bit surprised though I am with the sudden evolution of shanties on the ground I exercise every day. The new trespassers are quite intelligent. By the time I was done with my jogging, they had already set up three more shanties and the community was complete. It worries me for sure. But my worries are for young girls, school going kids, senior citizens, lovebirds and of course a few office goers who might be targeted for the more or little needs that haunt such slum dwellers. I am not against slums. But I am against encroachments, arm twisting and hooliganism.

Soothing definitely is the overall experience of getting to get fit again.

-vociferous\loves going footloose

MORNING CHATTER

September 26, 2011 >> 6:30 am to 8 am – Observations, Opinions and Optimism

Ignorance has become a virtue. Lethargy has become a habit. Staying awake almost till 3 AM is something, I was never accustomed to. From past eight years, I have adapted myself to this new addiction. Some call me an owl. Some call me an abnormal jerk. Some believe I browse through the wide encyclopedia of porn sites. Some claim I am always on facebook. Being on facebook is definitely no less of a sin.

I am a sinner for sure. One of my present high ranked colleagues, tried to criticize me by using some heavy duty words like – YOU ARE ALWAYS FOUND ENGAGING YOURSELF IN OPTIMIZING SOCIALLY NETWORKED COMMUNICATION (I possess the mail that he had written. But I can’t reproduce it due to bullshit reasons). Not for once, did I react to this comment of his by inquiring as to why his Blackberry keeps beeping incessantly? He is mostly busy with BBM, WhatsApp, LinkedIn, facebook or for sure twitter updates. I am still clueless about his pathetic hairstyle. On most occasions, he tries to make me understand my work profile rather than improving his. I am not interested in making an opinion about him. He matters to me no more. But the chatter continues.

The chatter is of unfavorable nature. Sometimes these chatters are uninspiring, insulting and baseless. At times it is supported by an equal dose of negative chatter by an ex-airhostess, who is now supposed to be driving the organization closer; to its dream of being BIG. For the past few days, I have wanted to liberate myself of this negative chatter. I was keen to sacrifice ignorance, surrender being lethargic and stop being awake till 3 AM (Sadly, I still am staying awake. I slept at 3.10 AM last night).

I had to make a fresh beginning and get accustomed to a new chatter; the morning chatter. So I chose today’s morning (September 26, 2011); brighter, bolder and beautiful. I pulled my socks, fished out my jogging gear, gently shut the door behind and ran down the staircase like a little child. Unlocking the main gate, I started walking. At a brisker pace, traversing through different altitudes; I made it to the road I have preferred last six years for my morning walks. The monsoons have left it nothing less of a beaten path. The potholes have transformed into craters. It was dusty, dirty and devastating. For a moment, I cursed myself for having started so late at 6:30 am. At least during the slightly darker shade of dawn, I could have saved myself of this ghastly sight. Trucks had started plying, leaving behind an even thicker trail of dust. Coughing, puffing and almost feeling suffocated; I started proceeding on the road towards the old Mumbai-Pune highway.

My first encounter as usual was with the three middle aged ladies, who have by now earned them a veteran’s reputation in morning walks. One of them in spite of having walked miles looks sleepy to the core. The second one is still losing extra pounds. The third one is neither fat nor slim and still burning her calories off, maybe to continue being fit. After I crossed them, I reached a certain point of the road where on the left is an endless lineup of tall woods. I simply love this place. It is closer to my heart because it reminds me of my younger aunt’s native town Jhargram (a Maoist dominated zone) in West Bengal. From between the tall trees, the rising sun’s visibility is simply amazing. Changing colors, rising higher and letting its rays enlighten the entire earth; the sight never fails to mesmerize. Thankfully I never corrupt by blocking my ears with a headphone that might be playing favorite English, Bengali, Hindi and Marathi chartbusters. This really helps. I get to enjoy the chirping of birds, the buzzing of bees, the collision of long palms, the brushing of dry leaves and the sound of my own footsteps. I am sure no music is as melodious as nature’s own. People prone to playing music on their mobile phones at this hour of the day are really losing out on something that might soon become an endangered experience.

As I proceed, I see the abandoned petrol pump. A gruesome murder, a shocking conspiracy and millions of unbelievable controversies made it down its shutters to us bikers. I still remember one day, while I was walking the same path I had seen a dead body close to it and never thought that it was the first lone chapter of a series of murders that would take place. Two days later, the owner of this petrol pump was shot dead. Two political leaders were arrested. Three employees of the petrol pump were also put behind bars for being co-conspirators. Today the petrol pump has become a haven for senior citizens. They sit on its steps. They sleep on the little green patchworks of grass near the entrance. Some practice yoga and a group of youngsters smoke cigarettes there. They might not be having any idea that the abandoned petrol pump still has some fuel left in its tanks. Standing opposite to the petrol pump is a huge ground. A sporting club gathers kids and people of every age group to indulge in various sporting activities.

Going a little ahead, I see another abandoned site. A cluster of well planned bungalows stand unoccupied. During this festive season of navratri, people come here to play garba. But even during mornings, this place looks scary. I had once attempted entering this place. It looks like a gangland of dogs. They are dangerous. Every abandoned bungalow is a heaven to four or five dogs. Instead of people, this place is a township of dogs. They keep barking. Sometimes they even chase fellow joggers away. It might have been one lucky day of my life when I earned their ignorance and not their attention. Stepping out of there, I see the many small shops that have cropped up. These shops are selling everything from condoms to cigarettes, from chocolates to soaps and from pens to sanitary napkins. I am yet to figure out, which part of the world goes to this place to purchase these things. Maybe it is beneficial to an adjacent industrial area on the other side of the highway.

I continue with my walk and I see a beeline of women with pitchers on their heads. These women belong to a very discreet community of fortune tellers. Their men leave homes at 7 AM in the morning and travel in groups. Strange but true, they prefer wearing whites. Clean shaved and speaking rustic language, there is no dearth of machismo in these men. They maintain a good hygiene and are smart enough to end up looking like top paid executives. The only typicality that separates them from us is the presence of a four legged animal, which continues walking with them. It is an ox. These are no ordinary ox. Some have a fifth leg leaping out of humps. They are considered either miraculous ox, sacred or blessed with special powers. At times I have seen these men hire trucks and carrying herds of ox to destinations. This community roams around in cities. They claim to know the language of the ox. In front of many they strike a conversation with the ox. Alongside they keep playing a drum. They bounce questions at the ox and it starts shaking its neck either giving consent to what is asked or negating. People literally end up paying generous sums of money to know their fortunes well. These guys are face readers too and deserve good positions in advertising for knowing their target audience too well. Shifting my focus to the women of this community, they are the hardworking team of goodwill ambassadors. In the entire course of day, till their men come back home they indulge themselves with the mammoth task of housekeeping. Filling water, cooking food, childcare, feeding animals, bathing livestock are some of the vital responsibilities which rest on their shoulders. Living in groups and close knit shanties, no family is different. Everyone is family. Marriages happen within the community while some dare to run away with freelancing lovers and return back being pregnant or being sold. These women or in particular this community of fortune tellers are highly illiterate. The women are extremely beautiful, tall and as rustic as the men. Their attire resembles the dress code of ancient Maratha women. The married women festoon their foreheads with a large bindi. Their noses are pierced and wear huge nose rings. Normally preferring to walk barefoot, the new generation is opting for backups in the form of overused footwear.

Leaving all these behind, I make it to the highway and start jogging briskly. To my right is a huge pipeline which continues endlessly. I keep jogging till the main entrance of the industrial sector. At corners are standing few women (they are employed with small scale industrial units), who cannot help gaping at my handle moustache, retro hair locks and my jogging gear. I don’t pay much attention though, cross the road carefully to avoid meeting with a second accident in the same year and start jogging back to the turn which will take me back to my home.

I start returning back home. There is a change of scene, I can literally sense. The beeline of semi clad women is now replaced with a queue of kids waiting for their school buses. Their parents are standing alongside and looking at their watches to avoid being late marked to work. Some couples (mostly college going) walk briskly to make use of whatever time is available to them. Rickshaws have started ferrying millions of employees of billions of employers to the railway station from where they will begin a journey to their source of monthly incomes. Beneath a huge light pole a huge group of women had assembled to board their buses to the industrial sector. Some are carrying too much of makeup on them. Some are gossiping. Some are quietly observing every guy who passes by to judge if one of them takes a second look at them. I always end up looking at them for the thrill they pack up to leave for their workplace. They keep smiling, putting behind worries of an otherwise hectic lifestyle.

I descend a huge slopping road and stop at my newspaper vendor’s little outlet. His daughter-in-law hands me a copy of the Hindustan Times (subscribed for two years). I start walking towards my home. Few neighbors are happy to see me out for jogging. I think by now they have tagged me an alien who is seen leaving home in the morning but is never known to be returning back. I too am pleased to see their smiles, which are punctuated with millions of questions flooding their minds.

Sweating, breathless and a little tired for being the first day; I climb to Level 1 of my home. After unlocking the main door, I choose to spend some time at the verandah. Few minutes later, I see a flock of Indian parrots flying in and descending on a huge coconut palm. I look around and find a beautiful butterfly sitting on the marigold flower in my mom’s garden. I try taking a snap but it flies away. After 15 minutes my mobile rings and I suddenly realize, the desirable Morning Chatter is over and I once again have to get busy with professional life. (I never mind attending to smses from friends or their phone calls.)

But for the sake of promises I have made to myself and the many assurances made to my friends, I seriously want to continue experiencing this morning chatter. Maybe one month down the line, I will end up wearing a few abandoned trousers and a heap of forgotten formal shirts. And I shall go back to my most revered Morning Chatter, start skipping with a rope and keep writing about the experiences.

Till then… let me get back to what I call ‘DISCOVERING THE BIG MEANING OF LIFE’.

-vociferous\loves going footloose