Music: a short story

This is a very old short story that I was reminded of today, and I sat and read it again. Also did some minor editing to it. 

Veenu

MONDAY, JANUARY 28, 2019

Music

Music: A short story

 

In her urgency to put the tape into the cassette player, she fumbled clumsily and dropped the plastic box of cassettes onto the floor. This created an unwanted problem of what must seem epic proportions at this most inopportune moment. Still flustered, she just let them lay scattered around. Randomly picking out one, she hurriedly shoved it into the deck, hitting the 'Play' button hard. 

Rushing to the window, she eagerly but cautiously peeped out. Moving the thin muslin curtains ever so slightly, her neck leaning low and to the right, she checked to see if the cause of her joyful excitement was still there. He was! 

Her heart beat excitedly, and an unconscious smile lit up her youthful face. She succumbed to a euphoric sense of nostalgia. The familiarity of this total stranger gave her a feeling of kinship with him, and she felt a wave of reminiscence envelop her. She did not want to take her eyes off him and continued staring out into the street at the object of her fascination while he sat unawares in his cab, oblivious to the excitement he had generated. 

The notes of the music opened too softly, too slowly, for her intention. Impatiently, she turned up the volume, hoping HE could hear it. She adjusted her position behind the curtain to keep up with his movement as he shifted in the driver's seat of the taxi. 

Finally, the traditional sound of the harmonium picked up pace, stirring the stillness of the small ground-floor room in their old Bombay building. "Oh please, please, please, start singing now," she begged, looking imploringly at the tape deck. As if on cue, the vocals accompanied the music, and she increased the volume some more and looked out again to see if he was still there. He was! A loud sigh of relief escaped her, and she held her glance with eyes sometimes squinting to get a better look. 

 

He seemed oblivious to the loud music coming from the ground floor room, with its door and windows wide open. She was separated from his taxi cab, wherein he sat, by just a five-foot wide balcony and another six feet of sidewalk pavement between them. Up went the volume again until it was nearly full blast on her SONY deck, which was quite fancy for the 1980s, she noted with pride. 

She so desperately wanted him to hear the music. She kept gazing at him in complete abandon, knowing by just looking at him that he would like the music.

Desperate times call for desperate action, so she surmised and boldly went out to the front balcony, shielding herself behind some tall potted plants, every sense alert to his presence. She saw his head shake a little, and he opened the door to get out of his cab. He now stood leaning against the door on the driver's side with his back towards her. 

It was early morning, and the sun, still low, had not hit the pavement as yet. It was hidden behind the tall buildings on the other side of the road. She became conscious of the coming and going on the street: people headed to work, children off to their school, old women going to the temple with offerings of flowers and fruits cupped in half-folded hands, and some retired men returning from their morning meet up in Shivaji Park. Uneasily, she realized someone might stop to say hello and strike up a conversation. She did not want him to notice her, she thought almost shyly, embarrassed at her forwardness. She did not want him to associate her with the unreasonably loud music. 

 

Abandoning the plants, she hurried in and again took up position standing behind the window, where she might get a better view yet remain hidden by the thin curtains and wide mesh of the wrought iron grill, the wide balcony, and the sidewalk maintaining a convenient distance between them. 

The song had picked up pace now, and even though the loud volume created static in the room, he seemed totally unaware of its playing. Another sigh escaped her, and she resigned herself to look and keep looking. Humming along and enjoying the music, she moved in rhythm with the tune, softly clapping the fingers of her folded palms. 

It was a happy start to her morning in a mundane life, where no day is the same, yet each day comes and goes, swallowing a part of her life and of herself. Life in this place, with no personal family or friends, was changing who she was, and she no longer recognized herself. (Something not uncommon amongst married women in middle-class India of the 80's and earlier.) Seeing him had brought back a sense of happy familiarity.

 

She saw him looking up at the tall building across the street where his passenger must have disappeared. She watched his posture change, probably with the anxiety of any waiting cabbie who must keep a tab on truant passengers. 

She turned up the music some more, desperate for his reaction. He was broad-shouldered with a strong back, and she could see the slight rise of his shoulder blades beneath the full-sleeved nondescript cotton shirt as he stood with his arms probably folded in front of him, yet the shoulders upright, accentuating his strong back. He had good posture, she thought, and was probably over six feet tall, with a robustness that was the hallmark of most Sikh men. His light-colored turban gave him a relaxed, casual air.

 

She felt an uncommon attraction when she saw him pull up in the black and yellow Bombay cab as she was waving the kids off to school this morning. Finding an unusual comfort in his overall appearance, which she could not define because of the perfunctory glance, she had giggled briefly, wondering if he too slurped when drinking his tea or if his mustache got wet. Since then, she had been distracted and behaving very oddly, she admitted to herself, but she couldn't help herself. 

She liked looking at him, or his back, because that was the most she had seen since that first brief glimpse of his endearing face. A quick warmth had suddenly passed over her. So she now remained at her station, hunching slightly and looking out the window at a Bombay taxi driver she had never seen before and probably would never see again. She had just received this gift of unexpected joy delivered to her door, and she would relish it as long as it would last. 

 

The loud music brought her to the present moment. She wondered what he was thinking, wondered if he was worried his Fare had done a runner? Was he, therefore, blocking out all else from his mind so that he was deaf to the music? Or was all the other morning sounds on the increasingly busy street prevented him from hearing it? 

She knew with certainty that the music could be heard on the street. In fact, she was sure they could hear it even inside the building across the street. She peered through the curtains again but could not detect any reaction from HIM. His demeanor gave away nothing. Perhaps, she thought, because she could not see his face, just his shoulders and upper body and the side of his ear and the back of his turbaned head, which looked up every now and then. 

 

Suddenly he moved forward and walked a few steps towards the building across the road. She heard someone talk to him from one of the top floors of the building. He came back momentarily towards his cab, and he was smiling now, acknowledged by his passenger. He opened the door of his cab and settled back into the driver's seat, resting his elbow on the cab window. She got a better look and noted the strong nose of his profile. She liked his face and felt that warmth once again. After a long time, she felt good in this kind of way. A certain peace pervaded her senses; she felt a surge of comforting emotion, primitive yet pristine, like sanity, washing all over her. 

 

The cabbie picked up a newspaper from somewhere inside his taxi and started to read it. Then, almost at once, he stopped, folded it, and put it slowly down as if trying to focus on something, to hear something! Her heart missed a beat, and she realized he had heard the music! She could clearly see the smile spread across his face as if mirroring her own happiness. She saw the expression on his face change as he sat back, relaxing deep into his seat; he started nodding and swaying his head to the beat of the music. 

 

"You are my everything," the voice sang, "in you my purest joys I find…." And she sang along to the swaying of his head. For the next several seconds, she had indeed found her purest joy.

 

It seemed too soon when the door opened in the back of the cab, and a man got in. The taxi driver leaned forward to start the engine. She saw his flowing white beard touch the steering wheel as the cab lurched forward. She closed her eyes, the tears streaming down her face, as she relished the short blissful moments in time, when riding on the strains of Sikh devotional music, she connected with memories of her grandfather.

Veenu Banga

copyright 2003

based on an actual incident in 1983

What a pleasant surprise! Beautiful day..and night!

 Maybe there is something to the online 'spying' that 'they' talk about. That our phones and computers spy on us. Do they? 

Well, I woke up this morning, and as usual, after starting my day, when I came to hang out with my friend YouTube, guess what's the first thing he served up for me? My first thought? Has this jealous ex (https://veenubanga.blogspot.com/2022/01/move-over-you-tube_14.html) contrived a fail-proof coup to regain my interest? 

It so transpired that the first thing YouTube serves up for my viewing and listening pleasure is..drumrolls please, this: https://youtu.be/11tOqbU8Ys8?si=7NSyG9MxKRMzpdmu

Yes! Bimillah Khan, shehnai ki Jaan! Has YouTube been spying on me? Did it see me talk about Bismillah Khan yesterday? https://veenubanga.blogspot.com/2024/03/verse-and-melody_27.html Does it have connections with Google, which hosts my blog? Of course! They're family. 

My evergreen love for this instrument was instantly euphoric at the sight of this dear, dear man. There was joy, head nodding, foot tapping, hand clapping, and tears. It was E X A C T L Y, the kind of shehnai I like to hear, no sadness, just celebration, to celebrate my reunion with...no way, not YouTube, with Bismillah Khan! 

At 4:32 minutes, 5:33 minutes, 11:30 minutes, 13:50 minutes, 14:56, and at 12:00 minutes, Bismillah Khan breathes life into his shehnai with his own breath, a Pran Pratishtan of sorts for his instrument. I notice his face, hands, and large ears, with those big earlobes, a sure sign of a highly evolved spiritual being—someone whose soul and spirit are of a child again. The cute dangler in his right ear adds just the right touch of mysticism. Oh, the joy, the joy, the joy! 

More at 15:26 minutes, 20:45, 22:51, 23:29, 24:02, minutes. He was again sitting before me, although a much older Bismillah Khan. Not apologetic for his inability to play continuously for longer than an hour, he is not embarrassed to display his vulnerability. My heart cozies up to him; his energy emanates through the screen of my iPad. 

Once again, I was a little girl, mesmerized by the hypnotic sounds coming from the pipe of an enchanting personality, a beautiful man with a glowing face, smiling with every pore on his skin, his aging eyes, still like stars, that bring a shine to the hearts of all who will surrender to his sound, and tune in to his frequency. 

More music followed, and the healing triggered by Bismillah Khan's shehnai continued. I noticed my pain had lessened. I even got up to cook for Myself- a sure sign of self-care. Yes, I can do it. 

As the day progressed, more good things came my way, and many more will come. I just have to make my way back- home to the eternal girl spirit, my soul, who lives inside me and has waited patiently all these years to welcome me back. It has never stopped singing. The songs and the music just fell on deaf ears. I hear it now, loud and clear. I'm coming home. 

Veenu Banga

03/28/2024

11:04 pm. 

It’s all about Emotions

 Master Lin, in his Level 1 class, says Emotions are the most powerful and the primary cause of disease. The disease begins with Emotion. So does healing, but this Emotion has Love in it. 

Every relationship cannot be described with Love, though it is agreed that there are many kinds of Love, including platonic, filial, etc. 

I think the highest Love is an adoration filled with respect. The Adoration of someone so worthy of being adored that to call it even an aspect of Love will be shortchanging it. 

Such Adoration came into my life when I met the Samanijis. Samaniji Jin Pragya ji, and Samaniji Kshanti Pragya ji. It is essential in life to have someone to look up to. Not necessarily a role model, but someone whose traits you can aspire to. May it be their intense spirituality, wisdom, or even discipline, all of which make a persona that excels at life. Lives a life of a higher purpose. These were my Samanijis. They came into my life to resurrect and save. To get me back on the track of life, where I was irretrievably derailed and displaced. 

In any interaction of worth, emotions are involved, and emotions can mine one's innermost depths. The Samanijis usually gave lectures in Hindi. Real "kadhin" (strictly adhering to the classical texts) Hindi is not the colloquial language I'm familiar with, but the textbook kind, and it took me several weeks to comprehend the meaning of their talks. 

However, I maintained the interaction and was richly rewarded. I wrote poetry in Hindi- not in the script, but transliterated. This was only the second time in my life. The first Hindi poem was a song I wrote for a housewarming of a Fiji-Indian Christian family in Sydney. For the Samanijis, I wrote more than one poem in Hindi, and immodest as it is, I thought, and they thought the verses were well written! 

This post was inspired by binge-watching a music group comprising a poet and two singers, one male and the other female. The poet, Ajay Sahasb, stretched popular Bollywood music and transported it into something magical. The singers Rajesh Singh and Gyanita Diwedi have the perfect voices and the right skills to sing them. The musicians accompanying them do a fabulous job of uplifting the melodies to a level of superiority and giving the songs a new lease of life. 

They've taken it off on a tangent, and it's paid off in terms of praise and popularity because of Ajay Sahaab's empathy and emotions toward the lyrics and where they come from in the circumstances under which they were written, and for which they were written with regards to the scene in the movie. He seems able to tell the story of its aura when he adds his own verses to the existing lyrics. 

I think it's the excellence of this group that, somewhere in my heart, I strive to do in my work, which is languishing in the pages of several notebooks that fill up boxes in my home. Those stories deserve their airtime, and their significance, relevance, and worth should not be for me to decide. 

My job is done once I have written. I have to remember that just as I get pleasure from reading other people's work, some may enjoy my writing. That's a pleasing thought!

Veenu Banga

03/28/2024

1:01 am

Verse and Melody

When I was a little girl, I remember my mother telling me that Urdu is a very refined language and that some words in Urdu cannot be translated well into another language to express the full depth of the word. She gave me the example of the word SOZ, or SOAZ, (pronounced sews, or so(r)es and soa(r)s without the sound of the R. The sentence she used to describe it was, "Uski awaaz mein bahut Soz hai ."

Another memory is when I was perhaps six years old. I remember holding my mother's hand as we settled into one of the front-row seats for a live concert with Bismillah Khan at the India International Centre in Lodi Estate, New Delhi. It was a venue near our house, and my mother's dear friend, Shanta Rao, was also with us. 

We sat across from the Maestro, and I wanted to believe he continuously smiled at me. He was continuously smiling with a joy that remained with me. The glowing radiance on his face, chubby red cheeks, joyous expression, and perpetually smiling eyes are etched in my memory. 

As Bismillah Khan played, I became so mesmerized by the sound of the shenai that I remember how I became conscious of my head involuntarily swaying with the music. It wasn't in my control to stop that. Shehnai was my only favorite instrument for a long time, and I played it often on my cassette tapes. It still is one of the instruments that can move me. Just not the sad strains, but the happy ones, with which he mesmerized a little girl. 

My mother often sang loudly with the radio as she went about her business at home. God knows she needed that happiness. Music has stayed with me, often to lift me out of whatever is not going right. 

Verse and melody have an innate magic built into them. If these two words had to be 'made' out of something, it would have to be magic. And if these two words had a 'TASEER' (another Urdu word I heard from my mum), a 'temperament,' it would be to have the ability to transport us, to sway, to take one (us) away. It is to influence a person and achieve a desired or even undesired state of mind. This reminds me of something I wrote for World Poetry Day in 2022:

"My love nest and my battlefield,

Both travel with me.

My playground and my life's grind

Are only a thought away.

Come life, let's entwine together 

Our resources, in a fixed embrace.

All I need, sweet life, are 

Words to take me away. "

My sentiments here are that I carry my universe in my mind, which is influenced by my thoughts, and I need just words (or, in my instance, verse) to take me away (elsewhere or anywhere that pleases me). My thoughts, verse, and music in my life are intertwined. 

(https://veenubanga.blogspot.com/2022/03/written-for-world-poetry-day-032122.html) 

So it was today that music unfolded its magic with a new discovery. I was not even listening to music. I think it was something arbit when this video showed up. I remember coming across this video earlier and perhaps listening to another version. I had been looking for "Yeh Nayana dare, dare.." because one of the girls in my school group had shared it, and I had enjoyed listening to it. Also, that day, I needed a softness to my day, a soothing voice. Who better than Hemant Kumar? 

What struck me was that the singer used the original song's melody and sang it in his own words. I was reminded of when I would listen to music on the radio and write my own words to it, even to some popular songs. Ha! We are more alike than we are different, we humans. There are others like me. 

I loved his verse and enjoyed listening to it again today. It is in Urdu, and the thought is so beautiful. The words of adoration are both simple and yet intricately entwine the object of his desire with his own very essence- his spirit. I was not very clear about the word "puhar''; the channel host graciously clarified that it meant 'showers.'

 “Khwabon ka chehra tu hai, 

Tu meri rooh ki khushboo, 

Tu hai rim jhim si, 

Tu hai rhim jhim koi puhaar, 

Tu Jane na, yeh Nayana dare dare, 

Yeh jam bhare bhare.."

https://youtu.be/9G_5sRJv_FE?si=ZVMvMYvasp0TKpgk

This song was my introduction to the group called Alfaaz aur Aawaaz. Initially, I thought this was a one-off, but later discovered so many other songs. 

The other songs that I discovered opened up a new genre for me. I never could get into ghazals, and this is a ghazalisation of popular songs. Some sad, but not a wasted sad, a sad of realization. A realization is learning something, so it's not a waste of time or life. It just is. 

Just like that, this video became something more than a sad song:

https://youtu.be/MgoLBGInzmY?si=IT1Hq_3YWNdc6F-L

The rendering of this song made me long to be there in person, if only to witness the pulsating sentience that must have reverberated in the air, of the indestructible connections that souls forge beyond space and time. Refers to Amrita Pritam, the famous Panjabi writer. 

Two below links of the exact song and incident at different moments are both worth watching for clarity: 

1) https://youtu.be/Xgvkr6BpjMI?si=o_EMD8b0-ZtO8zCA

2) https://youtu.be/pk-gd-uQXmg?si=ESc1qwwA5I41cXyh

https://youtu.be/pehQuK5oCRY?si=X2GfSpAtxxUYkP_d (beautiful guitar; strings are not something that endears to me readily)

62

https://iiim.youtube.com/watch?si=u_y34pdPxOJ8gGyC&v=qoMf9ETuirE&feature=youtu.be

 (unveils a fascinating story. I never knew this about Sahir Ludihanvi before) 

The ultimate song about betrayal, perhaps betrayed by time and circumstance, and then a deep acceptance:

https://youtu.be/MgoLBGInzmY?si=IT1Hq_3YWNdc6F-L

I'm not a ghazal person, yet I was mesmerized. I think perhaps these are more like reciting poetry. Maybe the accompanying guitar gives it a fusionesque quality that has appealed to me. Or maybe, sometime, somewhere, I liked ghazals but did not remember till these artists struck a chord with their rendition that extends the life of these pre-loved songs and takes them deep into one's heart. 

Their YouTube channel is called Alfaaz aur Avaaz. 

Veenu Banga

started 03/26/2044 completed 03/27/2024

11:56 pm

The Passion and the Pupose

 Dr. Suresh Nambiar released a new song recently that came up in my social media feed today. It is so inspiring to see people make their passion their purpose. It set off a binge-watching session of his singing over the years. I'm not alone in admiring this retired doctor, who has been singing all along, judging by a very early video I saw on his page for the very first time today. Dr. Nambiar also has some duets with his daughter. 

Dr. Nambiar shot into the spotlight when he recently won the first prize for singing at a competition organized by ICICI Bank in India. Just months earlier, a clip of him singing the winning song, "Jawanian yeh mast mast," went viral and was shared widely on WhatsApp groups and Twitter. Some called him an old man, grandpa, and whatnot till his daughter finally introduced him as a doctor who retired after four decades of service in the UAE and now lives in Kunoor. 

The following is my favorite clip of Dr. Nambiar singing, mainly because his audience's joy is infectious. It doubles the pleasure of watching him sing. 

https://youtu.be/o6utexEb1so?si=oKrgsMOzA2Kl0FT8

Another person totally and indelibly colored by his passion is my friend Wilson Romero, who paints primarily women in all shapes, sizes, colors, and mysteries. He now has a Facebook presence as Wilson's Art. We first met Wilson at the Casselberry Art and Jazz Festival in 2018. He was there to display his fabulous artwork. He worked in Florida Hospital then, so I presumed this was a hobby. Wilson's paintings are primarily of women, and he had his work already hanging in the Casselberry City Hall, which was open, and we got to see his work there as well. 

Wilson is now writing poetry with his pieces of artwork. His poems express so much urgency, heart, and passion that sometimes I wonder if the poetry is superior and if his poetry created his art, which is surprising to me because I have known him as a painter all these years. His paintings have an ethereal beauty, and his women have a magical sense of self. So, his poetry came as an exceptional and welcome surprise. 

Several web pages come up with a web search for Wilson Romero art. However, I couldn't find much poetry. When we first met Wilson, his work had a Klimnt-esqueness to it. He has evolved masterfully over the years, making his style unique. Almost all of his work has a lot of detail. A nice piece of his is at the link below. There are several others even more enticing. 

https://gallery500.art/products/ro000004 

Today, I was planning to write more about trees, my close friends, and my witnesses without judgment, and to them, I count. However, YouTube takes me down its rabbit hole of music and materials. Music notwithstanding, I do injustice to myself when I go down that path. I really wanted to write- there are so many drafts. 

On another note, I wished my brother Happy Holi via text. 

"Hope you celebrated it," he replied. 

" Not really, just on the phone," I wrote back. 

"Haha" was the response. 

"It's called international Holi, and no nahana dhona chakkar afterward." I think I made a good point.

Veenu Banga 

03/25-26/2024

2:32 am.  

Just two souls meeting again?

Telepathy? 

A couple of days before I was to arrive, she texted me and said, “2 more days left,” and wanted to know what time I would be arriving. She asks if I’ve started packing. Not even started, I tell her honestly. 

“I will cook something for you then and come to your place after work to see you and get a hug from you.” 

She doesn’t know it, but I’ve been thinking of her too, and wanting to call and ask her what she will cook for me when I arrive. I’m looking forward to hugging her again. Somewhere, somehow, in some highway in the ether, my message is related to her. 

“Please come and see me,” I write back. 

“Sure,” she responds, adding, “ What do you like to have (for) dinner?” 

She thinks I arrive on Thursday. Saturday, I tell her. 

She is disappointed, “I started counting hours now. Ok then, see you Saturday evening.” 

She is a working professional, a young mother, and an avid gardener who must be busy with enough to do daily, and right now, the Spring garden requires the tender and timely care of a new baby. 

And then, there is love, the kind of soul-sustaining love we have for our fellow beings. The kind that brings moisture to one’s eyes as I write about it. The kind that provides nourishment that money cannot buy. The type that is running like a stream in the consciousness of our souls. Just going on and on, and on its way, one lifetime to another, to meet or perhaps not meet in the next, or meet after however many births, for we all have other inclinations which may take us on journeys vastly apart, and our paths may or may not cross in every lifetime. When I think about this, I feel we should not waste the opportunity that brought us together again. I have become better at it as I grow older. Trusting, as I once did, in the goodness of our species. 

Never mind the souls that have not evolved enough and will harm us repeatedly. “There are no accidents,” says the wise Master. I must have had soul connections with them, too. 

But then, there’s her. With a heart filled with love, she likes to sing, and I like to hear people sing. She takes my requests sometimes. We hold hands and walk. She started out as my daughter’s friend, and now she is mine too. She showed us the way to Normandy Hill. It’s a magical walk, with pause for thought and more. Breathtaking views, 360 degrees of the horizon to gladden one’s heart. Summer ebbs away fast. It is almost autumn. I rub her cold hands in mine to make them warm. 

The sunsets are beautiful from the spot across from her house. The street there breaks into a grassy area with houses on either side, with a clear view of the hillside where sheep graze and laze in the hilly pasture, across from the train tracks, that while unseen, are evident by the visible electric lines where the commuter trains run along. She knows how much I love to watch the sunset. That I will stand and stare. She sends me photos. 

She made the most delicious food for me. I had told her it would be Prasad for me. It is. She loves my portobello quesadillas, which I will make for her. She wants to learn how to cook them because her son enjoys eating them. I understand and would do the same. We are mothers first. Always. And always. She wants me to call her whenever I am making the quesadillas. I think I should take all the ingredients to her house and cook them in her kitchen so she can enjoy them at home with her family. I know I would like to eat something I love with my children. That’s how we mothers show our love. 

She can be my sous chef when we make the quesadillas. I’ll put her to work to make the salsa. I will teach her the basics of blending the herbs for the homemade seasonings that I seem to have perfected for quesadillas. 

Once again, Palli and I will make memories together this summer.

 

Veenu Banga

03/24-25/2024

12:01 am.

Like a mother’s love, pure, unconditional. 

Thank you, Champagne Belle!

 Thank you, Champagne Belle, for safe passage. I missed seeing you on the aircraft and asked one of the lovely Ladies in Red for the name of our steed. Thank you for the comfort and the partnership we have, thank you. Not only this time but as always, tons of kindness! This time, it was the lovely Nicky and gentle David. 

We wonder who we betray. I felt I betrayed my mulberry tree, just as it was in the throes of birthing. Awash with little green caterpillar-like fruits with teeny tiny tendrils that feel like hairs, the juicy fruits that turn purple so dark that they almost look black are just beginning to form. I left with a sense of sadness that she will not be appreciated and will garner the strength to bring forth her offspring on her own. Nobody loves my mulberry tree like I do. Last year, I left three weeks later and still barely had any fruits on her and almost no yield. This year, she's laden. Heavily pregnant. I am so sorry, tree. Khamat Khamana. 

The loquat trees are laden, too. The Lucious yellow fruits hang in bunches, and the fruits on the one tree can vary sharply in taste, to sweet, sourish, and bland like different family members. They propagate quickly, and I am assured of a rotation of volunteers present in my yard. 

Besides these two trees, my moringa had just started to flower. I love using its flowers in my raita. The lemon grass needed a cutting back, as its strong, crisp, grasslike leaves dried after the months of cold weather. It still gave me tea—dear, beautiful trees and plants. 

It has been such a busy last couple of months. Why do we leave what we obviously enjoy, or rather, do not in some instances fully rejoice in? Not living in the moment? In my case, no, it's not as simple as that. It's the lure of Love. Do we love a place because we love someone or because they are in a place we love? That is a question, the answer of which we know in our hearts. 

Once I arrived, I was not disappointed. Clumps of daffodils greeted me, clustered by the front edges and around the sides of the front of the house. One, The tulips are early; it seems they had warm temperatures here. 

There are clear signs everywhere that Winter is loosening its grip on the land, quenched. It's a special feeling to realize that one is privy to the unfolding of Spring. Let the rebirth and rejoicing begin! 

Veenu Banga

03/23/2024

11:43 pm.

Lines for World Poetry Day 2024.

World Poetry Day, you crept up on me,

While I was thinking about a tree.

Quietly, the trees stand, giving, living,

We barely notice, but they even die for us. 

Bearing Fruits, giving shade, timbers

Of cradle and coffin grade.

Trees can live without people, but

Without trees, can man? No,

Definitely not; try as we can.

We can make houses of Mud, but

Can we make food? For food, 

We need trees, and shrubs, and 

The gift of oxygen we must include.

These are but basics, 

And lest we forget,

The trees are mightier,

They give and outlive us yet! 

World Poetry Day, these lines 

Are inspired by you,

But paper to write upon is 

A gift from the trees, too. 

Veenu Banga

©️March 20th, 2024.

11:46 pm. 

One quick trip

 And the complexion of the day changed! 

I think I’m finally beginning to understand the significance of Shivratri. The magical aspect of it is about Shiva dancing and how Parvati did so much tapasya to marry him. However, I still don’t understand the rituals. Why do we perform them? Shouldn’t it be between the two, the intimacy? Aren’t we interrupting their wedding day and night? 

When I was young, everyone told us girls to keep a fast on Monday to find a good husband. Whatever it is, it is. After a mundane day, a rushed-through close to the week, we went to the Hindu Temple in Casselberry. The Energy was palpable. The temple was very crowded as the Hindu population grew in the area, which is a good thing. The cafeteria stays open longer and more frequently, and the profits support the temple. 

To come back to the Enegy in the temple, I could feel it in my quicker stride- I had been shuffling at home, which is another story. As I write, it’s midnight, and the magic must be happening now! Both in the temple and at the Mission. I am content; I had a 7nice meal, good company with Sheetal Ben and her dad, and the childlike and endearing Sharad Bhai. Sleep beckons, and I’m ready to surrender in her inviting arms! 

Thank you, Shiv Bhagwanji. 

Veenu Banga

3/092024

12:09 am

A receeding nip

 That's the exact description that came to mind, as mentally, I said this to myself this morning (three mornings ago, maybe four now, actually!) upon first opening the front door. 

It was a nice kind of cool, but a distinctive 'nip' also spoke up first in the atmosphere. Just as a perfume blend has different notes and undertones, this 'nip' in the air tried to elbow its way forward but was more noticeable because it was out of place- it should not have been there, but it was. Except at sun-up, this 'nip,' which had a nippiness in the early air of the morning, would have to battle the sun and likely lose even a trace of itself. 

Elsewhere on the trees, I see the new 'tips' birthing forth in the Spring, trying to assert themselves shyly but surely, especially on my sycamore, which, in its bareness, suddenly seems too close to the house. 

Are humans always talking to themselves? Rather, to rephrase, are all humans like this: observing, curious, and interested, to put it politely? Maybe not all humans. Animals and wildlife certainly. I think. 

How can anyone not be? Not be aware of what touches our skin most intimately, as does the sun, rain, soil, and wind? And how we all react differently, not just in how that touch is reflected and received on the skin but how we feel about it. For example, I have rough hands, still cracking dry, with bruises after weeding my garden without gloves. That's my hands, independently of me; I, the person, enjoy getting my hands dirty when I'm working in the soil. Why would gloves come between us, that union of Mother Earth and child? I never allow gloves to do that. Never wear gloves for gardening, that is. That's why there are no harsh chemicals in our soil. Why would I poison my mother and all the wildlife that feeds on and in it, above and below ground, and many live in the waters where the runoff from rains deposits it? In our waterways? 

The sun is not aggressive these days, which is excellent, and I spent a lot of time outdoors without a hat yesterday. Maybe it's not a good idea because sometimes the heat shows up as a headache the next day. (It did! And overstayed its visit) The oaks, however, provided areas of shade. Maybe we, rather I, shouldn't have had them pruned along their winding branches that are growing low and horizontally. 

The turtles were sunning themselves on the now dilapidated dock jutting out into the smallish lake, now clearly looking dilapidated. I should have repaired it after the hurricanes and the flooding that persisted, drowning parts of the long dock. 

This abrupt ending to the slow meandering of my thoughts is what happens when I don't finish what I have to say. The continuity is lost. The chain of ~ thought is broken breaks, and the feelings can't be revived when I return to it later. It was not the first time, and also it was not the last. 

It has been the same the last few days, though it tried to warm up today. It also rained downtown, where we had gone for Vietnamese to Ann Hong. We've not been too regular since discovering the Korean not too far, as it's on the Bib Gourmand list for Orlando. They do a deliciously hearty vegetarian Bibimbap! 

At Ahn Hong, I had my standard #145. Indeed, there are not a gazillion vegetarian options. For starters, summer roll and Bahn Mi were nice options for appetizers. Beansprouts and Thai basil heaped upon my plate of vegetables with a gently flavored sauce, made my tastebuds and tummy very happy! 

Veenu  Banga

03/03/2024

12:23 am

A butchering, an acceleration, and a juxtaposition

  Exactly that, in the midst of chaos. Absolute chaos, insanity run amuck! 

Not too far back in the relatively recent past, there was a time when it was an absolute joy to drive down SR 429. The road that connected the hidden gem of a place called Winter Garden to the significantly populated APOPKA and its surrounding areas of Altamonte Springs and Maitland, being a toll road, was never, ever busy. The moment one joined the road at APOPKA, it greeted you with a thick forest of pine trees, standing tall, stately, thick, and thriving as a robust army of green standing tall, proud, and strong. I loved seeing that sight as I followed the road, usually to join the Turnpike and sometimes all the way to I-4, especially when we were going to Tampa. 

There were fields and open sky if it wasn't flanked by trees and pastures with contented* bovines. Beautiful, blissed-out open sky, with clear, crisp air, which again seemed to rule the space mile after mile, maddeningly distracting with its views far into the horizon. I once missed my exit going to the airport because the sunset was so spectacular that I couldn't take my eyes off it. I may even have missed two exits because, by the time I realized my position, it was utterly impossible that I would be at the airport in an acceptable timeframe. 

But alas, alas, alas, Alas! It brings tears to one's eyes to see the devastation and the rape of the landscape in so brutal a manner that I find it revolting and repulsive. The trees have been butchered down deep to the root, as concrete in all shapes and fashion take over. This butchering happened at such an alarming and accelerated pace that there's not even a memory of the transition', just an annoying feeling of constant construction, construction traffic, and more construction, closer and closer to the road. The poor suckers, retirees paying top dollar for a golf course under the Florida sun. 

To now add further insult to this butchering and devastation of the landscape, a tall wall is going up with concrete pillars already erected for the wall to snugly fit inside them like fences, so we don't see the new residents, and they are not bothered by the traffic. That would be hard to believe because the constant hum of traffic by day and night must never be quelled to sleep, irrespective and irreversible t as it is to the comfort of the humans living along this road. 

That's not all; hordes of apartments have sprung up, and one wonders who will occupy them. Are there so many people moving down here? And what of the jobs? In the guise of hospitals, two major 7-star worthy properties have sprung up, creating a bonanza of jobs to keep the apartments well-satiated. Oh, well! Well! Well! 

All this so-called progress is more like a landscape ravished without a squeak heard outside its immediate vicinity. Maybe no one is complaining? Perhaps they have no say in the matter? Maybe no one even notices the lack of shade provided by the canopy of mature, aged Florida oaks. Maybe folks are so used to the planned landscape greenery that they miss nothing? 

Adding to this chaos is the crossroads of juxtapositioning factors on this corridor. At its southern end are fields of a wildly spread-out solar farm! While that is a good sight for sore eyes, it's still a travesty squandered opportunity. The developers could easily have left a slim corridor of forest and untouched landscape areas as a mark of respect to the Earth, which provides selflessly. It would be a view to enjoy by the golfers and the people in cars whizzing by. But of course, not much thought was put into developing this area. 

The mighty dollar leads, and greed follows the dollar signs. Forests are felled in the name of development; the Earth, our maternal home, gives in to its children, and life continues. 

Veenu Banga

2/25/2024

12:43 am 

Partly Cloudy

Before we had our phones, every day was a pleasant and unexpected surprise. Of course, one wasn't living in America then. And, of course, in those days, the weatherman was also always wrong. 

Between the Centigrade and Fahrenheit debates, I switched to C from F this past year. I find it more palpable, and switching is easily manageable on the App. This switch is not without its challenges, especially when I try to make sense of the temperature showing indoors, where it's F by default, with no option to switch to C. 

Anyway, here's how it went this past Friday. It was back to the days of not looking out for the weather and I simply went out to harvest some turmeric I've been growing for the past few years. The few leaves of the root that remained above ground and visible were all but dried. It had been growing in two separate large containers. I had fed them both with an adequate amount of seashells and possibly added some sand to their soil to ensure the turmeric did not get soggy, which it had in previous years because I had neglected the harvest. 

The 'partly cloud' was pretty good till the mid-morning, and I started to weed the west side of our house, where the weeds had overtaken the beds, the bushes, and the pots. I had a good rhythm going when suddenly the sun, despite the partly cloudiness of the sky, made its presence felt enough for me to warrant a hat, which I promptly went in and got for myself. 

I had already filled up one bin with dried leaves, twigs, trimmings, and the weeds, mainly the 'stick-tight' that thrives here. Usually, I let it grow, especially in the winter, as I had read it has health benefits (https://www.backyardnature.net/yucatan/bidens.htm ), and it occurred to me that some insects may benefit from it. 

Nature always communicates with us in different ways. While pulling out and uprooting these Stick-Tight plants, specific thoughts came to mind. The weeds and I developed a certain understanding. While I failed to capture every nuance of that weed's personality, it impressed me enough to foray into the pages as I put pen to paper at night:

Today, I took advantage of the Partly Cloudy sky and weeded and cleaned up the whole west side of the house. Harvested Haldi from two pots. One was an old recycling bin. Transferred a citrus growing there into the big round pot where Haldi grew. 

As I was pulling out the weeds, I noticed that in the dry soil, it comes out easily- pull it close to the bottom/ the root, near the ground. Realized it has shallow roots- like shallow people who are the weeds in our lives. But they were harder to pull out in the wet soil because when the ground received water, it fed the roots into establishing themselves. Essentially, the water engages with the earth- so it is with humans.  

We should not engage with the weeds- the narrow thinkers (if they think at all!) the material types, the cautious hypocrites, the scared, the fearful (of what?) - the kind that want to be your best friend because they 'like' you and don’t know about you, and feed preconceived notions. 

Also, these same people, like the weeds, have a vast spread out canopy- their stick-tight seeds ensuring propagation and survival of the species, lots to show, in flowers and foliage, if I may use that word here, but little substance where it counts, at the root. Shallow-rooted, such people like this weed. 

Nature always teaches me. Nature can teach us a lot of all that we need to know. Including patience. Most of all, humility. The dear precious trees. How I hate seeing them being cut or 'cleared' (seriously?!) to make room for things that will not last even a fraction of the life of a tree. If they could talk, what stories could the trees tell us? They would make stellar witnesses in the cause of justice. Perhaps that's why they don't speak. The trees have witnessed the unwitnessable?  

It was a productive Friday work day. I had done some replanting and potting, and while I did water the plants I had caused trauma to, I needed to do more. Instead, I was lazy. 

Fortunately for me, Saturday offered respite to those plants I 'disturbed' on Friday. It rained all day. It did not seem like a happy rain; it almost was a dispirited constant water shedding, like the skies were unclogging. However, nature and plants don't notice niceties, devoid of what must be ego in their parlance and hyper-sensitivity in ours. Nature receives with gratitude; we look a gift horse in the mouth. I can hug a tree and cry with no judgment, just support. 

The lessons from weeding serendipitously also echoed what had earlier come to me with a sudden onset of intense realization and understanding. I spoke it to my heart, spirit, and soul- I want to live a life of excellence. 

Too long have I let go of myself. Too long, too lost. Lost in the company of riff-raff, losing myself in the weeds. Too easily swayed, too readily selling my soul, too neglectful of nurturing my spirit, too dismissive of recognizing the desecration of my spirit. Too much of too much, too little of the little that ultimately matters. 

The entry in my journal reads:

I want to live a life of excellence. What stands in between a life of excellence and a life of mediocrity? Circumstances- but how do we fight them? It ends abruptly. I did not complete my thoughts. 

Serendipitously again, just today, I was thinking, why do I have to fight? I don't like to, so much easier to keep the peace. Please, God, don't let me be born again and have to fight just because that's a lesson I will have to learn because I did not fight in this life. If I don't learn this lesson in this life, in my next life, please give me a companion who will fight with me and for me. That's one of my fears, having to fight- the whole good vs evil saga. 

K asks me to write. I'm still not writing what she wants me to write—the real stories. 

"Do you not write because the writing would be too traumatic for you," she asks. 

Will the fighting resolve the trauma, I wonder? Unless I'm brave enough to fight, I will never know. 

Veenu Banga

February 18, 2024

3:21 am. 

They want to crowd out your best self, because they thrive by overtaking your territory, suppressing your aura. 

A day quite unbecoming of Florida

 Oh, Florida! The Sunshine State? 

What did the heavens pour down upon you today? 

All day! 

A day quite unbecoming of your reputation;

But fret not; the earth was happy.

Quenched, every blade of grass,

Drunk with desire. To Spring forth. 

My mulberry tree, with its tiny fruit

Just budding on its branches, vying for attention 

With the new leaves of tender green. 

However, the tree is not quite green at the edges. 

It's stately old bark, colored and scarred 

By the sun, beating down in the high summer

Which claims Florida for much of the year. 

Seriously, this back-and-forth 

The uncertainty, the reluctance of Spring

And intermittent return to winter,

So unbecoming of you, Florida. 

Yes, I chide. 

Your reluctancy won't allow me 

To keep the doors open, bringing in 

The sounds from my porch and beyond. 

"You're forgetting," I'm told.

"You've been gone too often, too long." 

I'm told, "It stays cold off and on all the way to March." 

Maybe. What's to remember about that? 

Across the oceans, just like here, 

Is it a reluctant Spring? Maybe I am impatient.

"The daffodils we planted are starting to come up"

I'm told. 

"When are you coming?" I feel wanted.

Yes, I remember, in November, planting bulbs.

Earlier splurging at the Tulip shop in Amsterdam,

Going crazy and buying dozens of  bulbs, 

In a dozen varieties.

"When April, with its showers sweet, 

Has pierced the drought of March to the root.." 

I am reminded of Chaucer's opening verse 

Of The Canterbury Tales.

How easily the daffodils flourish! 

They grow a forest wherever they are planted.

Year after year, a riot of yellow, gently bobbing, 

Skimming playfully on the new green grass.

The daffodils herald the Spring. 

As one by one, the other bulbs,

Follow suit, patiently awaiting their turn,

So as not to steal the other's limelight.

Till at last, the Tulips delight,

In colors and forms, sheer delight

The Tulips will close the season. 

The grand finale. With them

The bulbs decide it's time to hibernate

And go back into the womb

Of Mother Earth. Till next Spring,

When once again,

"April with its showers sweet,"

Will soak the earth to the root.

And I will, again, walk barefoot

On the new green, green grass.

Veenu Banga

February 18, 2024

1:25 am.

The daffodils have started to sprout. It's time to head back. Now, one after another, the bulbs will start blooming till the tulips decide it's time for all the bulbs to go back into hibernation. Nature is never impatient. Nature never complains.