It feels so natural

 To write.

Paryushan starts on the 24th, tomorrow. Simple things we can do, Firstly, follow the tenets of non-violence and other Jain principles. 

It is also wise to eat before sunset every day. Paryushan is also an opportunity to build up willpower and create discipline. We can refrain from eating root vegetables. Reduce the number of green items we eat, and perhaps limit them to four servings or eliminate them from our diet. After all, it's only for eight days. 

We should listen to Pravachan and meditate regularly. Spend time in Nature and discover God is everywhere, with me, and in me.

Veenu Banga

August 23, 2022.

2:33 am.

How do I address you?

 We’ve barely spoken, you and I. 

There are always folks around. You’re so much in demand. You’re adored, worshipped, approached for wish fulfillment, and invoked for the wisdom, which has been unequivocally acknowledged as the Ultimate in all that is to know about life. So, where do I stand a chance? Amidst all this cacophony, what hope do I have to get your attention, especially as I come empty-handed? 

So far, I’ve done quite well, so perhaps I’ll continue. Having said so much already to you has emboldened me. Maybe, you will forgive my lack of formally addressing you. 

So let’s talk. Please? Well, I was listening to music after a very, very, very long time. Listening, as in binge listening, alone with just my thoughts and my longings, after everyone had gone to bed. It was just me and my music. 

While it’s been on my mind these last few days to chat with you, I’m glad I refrained because my emotions were quite different then, and I may have sabotaged my chances. You see, I’ve been holding a grudge. Against you. Now, I did not say that. I just thought it. Oh, and you heard it? You knew? Really? So you do know it all then, huh? 

That’s precisely been my point. If you know it, why have you not done anything about it? Why can’t I get the benefit of your mercy? So, as I was saying, I’m deeply hurt and offended by your lack of sending any, even a minuscule amount of wisdom, my way.  

However, one particular piece of music today mellowed my misery of feeling neglected by you. I sang with the hymn to praise your glory, addressing you by your many names. Oh, I guess that solves the issue of wondering how to address you. 

Here are just some of your powerful names, Shree Krishna. Achutam, Govindam-Gopalam, Padmanabham, Damodaram, Sharanam Bhaja. Shreedhararam, Devikanandam, Gopika Vallabham, Chakradharine. Giridharinam, Poornadevam, Jagannathan, Lokanatham, Jogeshwaram, Vishwaroop Darshine, Lokanathan, Shree Krishnasharnam. NAMAH. It truly gladdened my heart just singing to the mesmerizing music with the voice. Oh, and thank you for the fragrance while I gently chanted along, mindfully keeping silent where there was a chance to mispronounce your holy name. 

My urge at admonishment already seems to have evaporated. Maybe it’s me, having spoken out at last, or perhaps you, the all-knowing? Or maybe it’s both of us, my coming to you, albeit somewhat indignant, and your mercy finally being bestowed upon me. And, because the devil is in the details, I don’t want to know the whys and hows. 

Having thus poured my heart out to you, sleep beckons. Louder than my longing to get to know you. However, we will take it up again, another time. I hope, sincerely. 

Meanwhile, please don’t forget me. Please be kind. How will you show yourself to me? I will worry about that another day, content now to know I’m within your sight. 

Maybe in my dreams? 

Veenu Banga

August 23, 2002

1:37 am. 

One word, and all that it hides.

 Kashish.

After two hours of immersing myself deep into it, listening to some of my favorite music sung by different artists, I had but one word to show for it. One word that just came to the forefront, of all the talk that goes on in the head, all the scenarios we live through, and all the places they take us, was Kashish. 

Kashish. Aggressively asserting itself. Deep from within, it showed up, reminding me that it was a part of my life and always there, just latent. That I may have forgotten it, but it had not forsaken me. I never asked what it was about today that Kasish decided the time had come for it to come out of the deep, from under the layers of life heaped upon us, and make its presence known.

While I’m no longer sure I remember what Kashish means, I will go with my gut and believe what I think it means. So Kashish for what? 

Kashish- For wanting to be back in India. Wanting to be in the audience of some of these live concert shows where the vocal artists sing, and the musicians play. Where so many souls join them collectively and lose themselves in the heavy cloud of that emotion that comes laden in the songs. 

Kashish, for returning from my morning walks and seeing the sunrise along with my return home. The feeling of my clothes wet, and clinging to me with the sweat born of a brisk walk in the Delhi summer mornings. 

Kashish for participating in the Durga Puja celebrations, watching the Dhunuchi Naach, and being mesmerized by the dancers' devotion. 

Kashish to talk with others in the audience who enjoy live concerts and bask in the collective Energy of the music and the people. Revel in the magic that vocal chords can create, and be grateful for the ability to hear and drink the magic that comes in the form of liquid silk, which can only be created by sound and tasted by hearing. Yes, the Kashish is to partake of that magic potion. 

Kashish to write to Krishna, tell Him what is on my mind, and hope I can demand an answer. After all, He is all things, to everyone, and all things. Also, thank Him for the fragrance.

Veenu Banga

August 23rd, 2002

1:15 am.

Eddie of the green coat

The back story for this little piece must come after the reading. Simply because there may be a little surprise for those not familiar with the Eddie referred to here, and there would be many. So here it is for your reading pleasure.

~

Oh, Eddie! How much I look forward to seeing you,

As you go hither and thither, far and near, on your way.

I frequently wish I could come with you, and 

See all the places you tread, 

In that smart green coat of yours.

Ever so often, I wished I could talk with you,

There are so many questions in my mind,

Once, we came almost close enough to whisper

You and I. You in your green coat,

And I, in my silver attire, we were both sailing, 

On the Northlink ferry from Lerwick to Aberdeen. 

It was a night sailing, so I did not disturb you.

I let you rest your tired mass, and I 

Then let my eyes gaze contentedly over 

Your green coat attired imposing self. Comforted, 

I closed my eyes, knowing that our nearness was real

And not a dream.

So Eddie of the green coat, or is it, Mr. Stobart 

That I should say? Do you ever glance around 

And take note of us girls, looking up longingly 

At you, as you and I, and the others like me,

Whiz past each other. Every day, 

As we keep the country well supplied. 

Till next time then, Eddie Stobart, our paths diverge here

How gracefully I see you maneuver the roundabouts

As you exit out of my sight, but only till next time, 

Then again, on a nice sunny summer’s day, we may 

Again traverse together, and our paths stay steady

Long enough for us to appreciate each other better. 

So long, Eddie. It’s Adieu, and signing off for now, 

From your longtime admirer, Mercedes E220D.

Veenu Banga

copyright August 21, 2022

Backstory:

We are a family of Road Trip lovers. One of the joys of a road trip in the UK is seeing the different trucks go about their business keeping the country well supplied. My favorite are the EDDIE STOBART trucks! 

I miss seeing them in the city streets, so it’s always a delight when I do spot them off highway. In my opinion the Eddie Stobart trucks are the best behaved and best looking fleet. So here’s a tribute to the Eddie Stobart boys in Green! I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading the poem, as much as I loved writing it. 

Thanks for reading!

Veenu

Liberated!

 How could I have forgotten! 

After months of procrastination, I liberated Bubbalou from the depths of one of my journals. While Bubbalou was created in 2006, it originally entered my life in the early 1970’s, and was soon after published in an agricultural magazine. I have carried a copy of it, on a fragile with age sheet of paper, typewritten, long before computers became a common thing. 

Here it is, with the back story, followed by a link to what’s become of him after he became Bubbalou. He’s happily delighting little children, like he once did me- he held me mesmerized and moved, pensive, thoughtful, resigned. 

The transformation to Bubbalou was required for it to be more palatable to the young and not so young minds in the west. The ‘fatality’ of “all life must come to an end,” may not have sat well with the western mind, and certainly not an ending such as met by my friend in 1971?! This is how it all happened. 

Indian Monsoon

This poem is the original of the recently published Adventures of Bubbalou, the baby water bubble. An Agricultural magazine published it, along with another poem, Sparrow's song. 

The Backstory for this poem takes me back to a late afternoon or early evening during the monsoons. It was in Pandara Road, New Delhi, where we lived for about 23 years, in government accommodation allotted to my mother. At the end of each row of flats was a deep gutter for the rainwater runoff. Being an avid walker, I always sought a reason to 'go' somewhere so I could walk. 

I remember heading out as soon as the rain stopped. The gutter was still gurgling away like an energetic brook, with water flowing at a good pace. I glanced into the gutter and noticed a big water bubble. Along with the blades of dried grass and other bric a brac from nature's excrement being washed away with the rainwater, it was jaunting along, floating in the water, meandering with the water's path, going wherever the water's flow was taking it. 

In my late teens then, in the early 1970s, I had matured enough to have a mental bent that colors much of Indian thought process and life, the feeling of a presence of divinity and the impermanence of things. From this observation, my poem, Indian Monsoon, was born.

Indian Monsoon

I am a baby water bubble 

I was born in the rain,

My life is but a short span

I'll just float down the drain.

Straws and dust are my companions

All natural gifts of God

I was born of the lady cloud

The thunder is her lord.

I sway to the water ripples

I dance to the breeze

'Midst grass and thorns and ferns,

My way, I often squeeze.

I live in muddy rainwater,

A boon to farms and fields,

For all humans bless the rain

For the harvest rich it yields.

I, too, am exposed to dangers

Encountered in human strife

I avoid those paper boats 

To save my precious life.

As gaily I sail on

Merrily to the pitter patter tune,

If I'm born at sunrise

I don't live to see the moon.

That all life must once end

To this, I am quite wise,

So before against that rock, I dash,

Just let me close my eyes.

 

Copyright 1971 Veenu Banga

Here is Bubbalou, published on July 27th to mark a special birthday. In paperback and on Kindle:

https://www.amazon.com/Adventures-Bubbalou-Baby-Water-Bubble/dp/B0B8BPCJQX/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

 https://www.amazon.com/Adventures-Bubbalou-Baby-Water-Bubble-ebook/dp/B0B7ZLMSTF/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=