I became a car again.
After not seeing Eddie Stobart for several days, it was almost like I was lulled into forgetting that feeling. Then suddenly, there he was, coolly pulling up beside me. OhMG! All the memories came flooding back of my crazy summer chasing the boys in green.
I can see myself smiling to myself. It’s a nice feeling. No, not the boys in green feeling. The seeing myself, smiling to myself. I feel I need no outside green when I am evergreen.
Veenu Banga
12/08/2023.
12:10 am.
The mind writes
Faster than the pen can commit to paper.
As we headed out this afternoon, already dark at 4:30 pm, I wished the reluctant drizzle would stop. Or just burst forth and empty its load and be done with it. I'm not complaining, but the uncertainty can be annoying. Like a half commitment from the skies, undecided, should they, or shouldn't they?
I think it is okay to expect a certain decisiveness at this stage in our lives. Time is precious.
Anyway, when we joined the motorway, I realized I hadn't seen as many Eddie Stobart trucks as I used to. The truth is I'm not looking anymore, either. I suppose the Infatuation with the boys in green is waning. I may have spotted one on the way down, which still stirred excitement. Of sorts.
Then, on the way back, I was deep in thought, the seat warmer keeping me cozy as the drizzle continued outside in the darkness. The narrow roads in the city, the old churches of stone, remnants of generations before us, and all the other peculiarities of this Old country triggered a deep longing to know how I came to be here.
If there were anything I could want, any wish I could be granted, it would be to sit with all my ancestors, all those who came before me, and get to know them. Know them and communicate with deep love, sincere compassion, and supreme reverence.
Whose trauma am I carrying in my bones, to whom belong my fears, and what can I do to comfort and console them so they can be erased from my past? And dispelled from my mother and grandmother's past, and be drained of all residue through me so it does not percolate down to my daughter.
What of the men, though? What battle scars do they carry? Will we ever know?
The bright spot of this car ride, which brought a smile, was the realization that it's hard to find people with good camaraderie and quick wit, with a penchant for repartee and a love of knowledge sharing. I wondered who this came from and where they lived when inhabiting this world.
So, the second thing I would wish for is someone to talk to. Just talk, celebrate life, and maybe hold hands? Holding hands as we walk comes down from my teenage years, walking with my grandfather.
Veenu Banga
December 7, 2023.
11:43 pm.
Out of the blue, this memory came flooding back the other day. I think it was the mention of Goa that triggered it. It brought out this spontaneous and happy giggle, which turned into full-throated laughter as the memory returned to regale me.
"Mohinder lives in Goa," I announced, "and so do Linda and Jenny."
All three are friends of mine from my teenage years. Linda and I were 15, and Jenny was perhaps 16. Mohinder may have been a year or two older. All of us were connected by circumstances that put us in close and constant proximity for about six months.
Six months is a very long time to go by without incident, especially if one restless teenage mind stays true to her nature of being, well, restless.
We had all sat around a wooden table, frequently in the expansive brick-paved front yard of my grandfather's house on Babar Road in New Delhi. We were homeschooled by my grandfather, and all three of us were studying for our 10th standard matriculation exam.
Mohinder's situation was that he, being an Indian National Schoolboy's Cricket team member, had a commitment to the sport, which overrode his responsibilities towards physicality attending school.
Linda and Jenny had moved to Delhi in the middle of the school year due to their father's job transfer, a Wing Commander in the IAF.
Yours truly was a school dropout, to put it dramatically. However, the truth was that I was a distracted child not doing justice to the Royal sum, which was the monthly fee of my school, the Convent of Jesus and Mary in New Delhi. I had, therefore, been pulled out of school barely three months into the 8th grade. My grandfather knew precisely what to do with me. So, I joined his class of homeschoolers taking their 10th standard matriculation exams in six months.
Back to Mohinder Amarnath. He was an accomplished and well-loved cricketer on the field. He was also, six days a week, completely out of his element, sitting around the table with two gushing girls (one of which was the school dropout), one very level-headed girl, and the schoolmaster, who did not appreciate nonsensical chatter during study hours.
The nonsensical chatter was no problem for Mohinder at all. He mumbled at best when spoken to by the said girls and usually kept quiet with his head down and in his books. In plain words, he was a gentleman.
That had no effect on the two gushing girls, certainly none on the school dropout. Remember, we already know she was very distracted, with an attention span that was everywhere, at any time.
She was a precocious child with keen observation skills and an elephantine memory. The school dropout inevitably had trouble remaining undistracted.
However, being human, the schoolmaster sometimes trusted his wards to be alone to write down their assignments—just the break the school dropout waited for.
One such day, the school dropout grasped at her lucky break. She looked up from her notebook, and her eyes lingered on the object of her distraction, a pair of elegant metal cuff links.
Laying her elbow on the table, she tilted her head sideways and low, almost resting on her forearm, as if in deep concentration.
This form of concentration became her repose whenever their teacher stepped away or was engrossed in a book. Her focus, however, would be on the cuff-linked ends of the sleeves of the impeccably ironed business shirt of the said cricketer sitting across from her.
"Mohinder, tere cuff links bahut sunder hain, your cuff links are so smart," she would sigh, as Mohinder tried not to hear what he heard.
Back to their notebooks, and a few minutes later, again, "Mohinder, tere cuff links bahut sunder hain, your cuff links are so smart."
This refrain went on for several days.
By now, the gushing girl sing-songed her remark, enjoying it as it became a daily ritual, uttered usually more than once a day. She also realized her constant remark about his cuff links made Mohinder quite visibly uneasy, which she blithely relished.
By now, Mohinder was finding it harder to un-hear her sing-song rhetoric, which only added to her enjoyment. He may have been silently blushing as well, but the gentleman that he was, he wouldn't let on.
Just about the time the school dropout was looking for a new distraction, Mohinder's patience was fraying.
Then the day came, like any other (except it was not), and the young teenagers all sat down around the table as they did every day and pulled up their chairs, preparing to open their books for the first lesson of the day.
That day, Mohinder held out a long arm with his wrist downturned and hand closed; he thrust it toward the usually gushing school dropout. He held it there, waiting. Finally, the girl held her open hand, palm upwards, "Yeh kya hai, what is this?" she asked. Mohinder said not a word and dropped the objects of her adoration into her palm.
The next day, like any other day (except it was not), Mohinder had another surprise for the school dropout gushing girl. Soon after he sat down at the table, Mohinder slid his downturned fist on the table towards her. Then he picked up his open hand, revealing a little brown box.
"Yeh kya hai, what is this, she asked?"
"Is mein woh cuff links aaye they, the cuff links came in this box, Mohinder said, adding, "Meri behan ne mujhe diye they, my sister gave these to me."
The school dropout gushing girl still has them somewhere in her stash that has moved across three continents with her.
Sending Samaniji’s birthday wishes for tomorrow today. Samaniji’s Birthday:
K- Kindness lives at your core
S- Serenity surrounds your being
H- Honorable in word and deed
A- Abundance of blessings supreme.
N- Nourishment for the soul you provide
T- Tenderhearted, yet tenacious,
I- Idealistic values as your guide.
P- Positive outcomes promise solace,
R- Radiantly glows your wise, sweet face
A- Accomplished, you’re always full of grace
G- Genuine, you lift the fallen to rise,
Y- You are forever and always
A- Admirable in my eyes.
J- Joyfully infectious, your gentle smile
I- Illustrious ideals to uphold all the while.
May all the blessings of Lord Mahavir be with you today and always. May all the Gurudevs be very proud of your achievements and shower their blessings on you.
May Samaniji Jin Pragyaji always have many reasons to rejoice in your growth and success. May you enjoy good health and continue to lead and inspire old and young alike to follow the path set out by Jainism.
Please accept Happy Birthday wishes from your ardent Shravak.
Veenu Banga
Copyright 08/27/2023. (For 08/28/2023)
7:45 pm.
A Paper Trail
Today is Bauji's birthday. Bauji was my maternal grandfather. I wonder how old he would have been today. If I were to calculate and take a guess, I'd say 124 years old.
Bauji was a quiet man, always with a book in hand, reading. He spoke very little, but he wrote a lot. When not reading, he was writing, mainly in English. He was a book guy, and I'm more of a shorter reading material girl, most of the time. He could read the same book over and over and over, just like my daughter and my son. Also, just like my children, when he was reading, Bauji was in good company, and he chuckled and laughed, and of-course, sometimes fell silent. There were times his eyes glowed and his voice softened, as he read aloud, savoring each sentence like it was a goodbye to his beloved, and he was holding her hand longer and speaking slower, to let each word sink in as he stretched the moment for as long as he could. For love like that, to be loved like that, I wish I could be a book in my grandfather's hands.
So much like my daughter, Bauji had his favorites. This realization just came to me as I started to write this; that the paper trail stretches from my grandfather to his great-grandchildren, my children. While my daughter will ask me to read passages from a book she's enjoying at the given movement, my son gives me the book and will later check with me if I've read it till I do.
One difference between Bauji and my children is that he wasn't a hoarder of books, at least not when I knew him. He favored the library and would check out a book repeatedly if he fancied it, and his one favorite book was an Urdu novel titled "Naheed." We heard that story often, and he regaled us with passages from it, I think with more enjoyment himself. Yes, he enjoyed romances!
On the other hand, my children love to buy books, and we have a proper dedicated library room at home. My son's books will fill one bookshelf, I think. My daughter's books, however, will spill from her personal library room into her bedroom, and those she can spare, I sneak into my library. She arranges all the books correctly, as she learned at her first volunteering position in her high school library. My daughter has several; read 5-6-7 copies of a single book if she really likes it. There will be first editions, ARC copies, hardcover editions, paperback, signed copies, and sometimes more than one signed copy.
If there was one thing I could find out about my genealogy, it would be to know where this love for books and education started. Also, how come these folk were so industrious?
My mother was also fond of writing and maintained a journal, which became more regular after she retired from working. She occasionally wrote, not just for her journals, but also published her writings in senior citizen magazines, and wrote at least one article for the Deccan Herald. Deccan Herald also interviewed her for a piece on self-care and disease prevention through nutrition.
I think that explains my love for the written/ printed word, and my love for every scrap of paper that crosses my path. It is a huge cause of frustration for my family, because I find it hard to throw even a torn page of an old newspaper, without reading it first. It’s a Paper thing, I suppose.
There are many ways to honor my grandfather, and no one memory is better than another. The paper trail however, is one treasure that has passed from one to the other and is the uniting factor that just as our common blood runs in our veins, a love of printing ink runs in our brains.
There was far more to the man. Unassuming, he quietly did his work. I don’t recall Bauji ever visited any house of worship. His work was worship. He retired as a school principal, and kept teaching, giving private tuitions till almost the end of his days. If I was at hand when he would collect his tuition fees, he would hand me the money, and say, “Go and give this to your grandmother.” Which I did. My maternal grandparents were the biggest blessings of my childhood.
Happy Birthday Bauji!
From your ever-loving,
Veenu
18th August 2023.
11:49 pm
Oh! NYC. Like you there is no other.
The myriad images of the myriad days and nights and seasons and spaces and all those magical districts and places, the eateries, the faces, the streets, the retreats, what’s not to love, New York, New York?!
Veenu Banga
10:08 pm
25/07/2023
Vandami Namansami Samanijis. Charan Vandana at your lotus feet.
Looking South, the night sky was so clearly blue. Even right now, the blue persists. It’s also a very clear night sky, just the deep blue velvet, not a cloud in sight. The stars however, are having a great time. Very active, as if serious, but animated conversations are taking place. What a joy to witness this sight tonight.
Earlier, Mars, clearly shining gold, sat beneath another star. I couldn’t tell which one. Sky Guide no longer works they way it did. The search works though and I could search for the ISS.
The nice thing about keeping this record is that when I look back and read my posts, I can relive the moments. Whoever disagrees, is missing out on buying more time, or rather extending joy.
Well, that’s that, after a long time. With so much written just on the pages of my mind, my mind must have said, enough. Go write woman, your iPad calls. Nice to know, that it’s not the just vast open sky, something here on earth calls out to me too. Even if it’s a trusty old iPad.
Veenu Banga
11:26pm.
February 26th 2023.
She would have been 100 today. My dear precious, beloved Mother.
What can we give to our parents, who gave us life? It’s a futile attempt. We pine for them for our sakes not theirs. My mother, her mother and her father before her, her father, and his father and mother before him, their siblings, their grandparents and great grandparents, and the whole lineage before them, how far back do we go?
In my mothers face, and in me from all that I was given by my ancestors, they rest. To nurture my soul, for we all but soul connections, is to nurture my lineage. When words don’t come to the rescue, just a humble gratitude, a wish and a prayer, may I again be my mother’s daughter.
Happy 100th Birthday dearest Mummy!
Are we not all connected? My first post of the year, celebrating my mother, and the ancestors before her.
January 8th. 2023.
1:27am.
