Are you a chatterbox?

"ARE YOU A CHATTERBOX?" screamed the headline of the boxed advertisement in The Northern District Times, daring me to respond. This advertisement had caught my eye the week prior as well. This week it was mocking me. They are still advertising? Hmmmm, I looked at the advertisement again. So they were still looking; the thought spurred my confidence. If I see this advertisement again the next week, I am going to call, for sure -I promised myself.

Each Thursday, we looked forward to the "Times" as the local weekly newspaper was fondly called. It was distributed free and delivered into the mailboxes of the apartment units in our desirable northwestern suburb called Meadowbank, in Sydney, Australia. Like most recent migrants with limited incomes, unlimited expenses, and tight budgets, the 'Times' was our primary source of job vacancies and other information of every relevance, of some entertainment and even education to an extent, the source of our knowledge and insight into the local news and views, and the culture of this land, our new home country.

It was the newspaper under your arm with which one could tell the established migrants from the newbie. New migrants like us could ill afford to buy the daily but pricey, Sydney Morning Herald or The Australian. The commute on the local train to and from work however, briefly coalesced into one the proletariat, and the established, irrespective of our status. Yet, we could not have been more disparate.

Always on the lookout for a better opportunity, my eyes scanned inside the train cars and on the platforms, for the abandoned primary newspapers such as the Sydney Morning Herald, The Australian, or even the local papers from other suburbs. These found a welcoming home in my sunny top floor rented apartment, where I scoured through them on the weekends, looking for jobs, grocery specials, the odd coupon, council announcements, and of-course, my very favorite Homes section, where I looked at the house prices, searching for the perfect place to dock my expensive dreams. For now I was content despite my economical pocket with a budgeted affordability.

"ARE YOU A CHATTERBOX?" The bold capital letters demanded to know once more. Here it was again, for the third week in a row, daring me to call. I re-read the advertisement, for the umpteenth time, noting hungrily the $13 an hour wage. The client was a ‘highly respected multinational corporation’ and ‘leaders in their industry’. 

Of-course I was a chatterbox, and for $13 an hour I could be a very good one indeed. Thank you, yes. The only problem was that the work was for just for a three-month contract. 

I had recently started my first job as a casual Sales Fulfillment telemarketer working the outbound phones for a marketing company, that took orders for products advertised on TV. While the inbound operators had work only for the days our ads were running on TV, recording contact and quantity information, I was working every day, all day, doing sales fulfillment, and providing product information if the clients had any questions. Daphne, the boss had told me my job was 'ongoing'. I felt a certain smugness in not seeing an end to my income. At $8 an hour I could also see the security aspect of the 'ongoing' status of my position. It was good money in the early 1990's Australia.

That Friday afternoon, even as I put the phone down after securing an interview with Brenda Farrow of Tempo Consultants, for the $13 positions, I began to have misgivings about what I had just done.

Greed, my mind now mocked me, that is what motivates you. What if I did get this job for $13 an hour? What then, what after three months? What also, if I do not last even three days? What am I doing, I thought, having decided to do it anyway? I liked being reckless, but was I being foolish? Defiant? Ungrateful? If chatterbox is my first name, curious is my middle name. I just could not resist doing it. Greed or no greed, $13 an hour beckoned and had been calling my name for the past three weeks. When the newspaper flew open to the page with the ad, as I took out the Times while settling into the window seat of the train, it was a clear sign, it was meant to be, this job was meant for me. So I had heeded the call.

The few weeks at my current job had also made me quite bold, so I called in sick at work, to go for the $13 interview. It would be wise not to jeopardize my current position if things didn't work out here. 

The $13 hiring manager, Brenda, was pleasant and friendly, and quickly came to the point. Obviously under pressure to send 30 people for the job starting in two days, she told me I would have to start immediately. The second batch was starting the paid training next day. She told me a bit more about the contract position with an American Credit card company. I recall getting goosebumps when I heard that name, and was thrilled about working for a big name client. Besides, the $13 certainly catapulted me into the top league of temps as well.

The American Company had introduced a new card and had been inundated with applications. The Telephone Investigators would be required to make telephone calls to verify the information supplied by the applicants, Brenda explained. She put the application and contract paperwork in front of me and handed me a pen, obviously preparing to proceed with the hiring process. A tinge of excitement laced with delight filled my being. Then just as suddenly as the feeling had crept in, it passed, and panic prevailed. The work seemed far too easy and simple for the $13 an hour. The thrill evaporated and I was filled with apprehension. I recalled other such ‘high paying’ jobs that I had not applied for earlier because they had required computer skills. Immediately I felt my hopes dash and my ego deflated. What would I say to the kids? The whole family had been walking on air at the prospect of this interview.

"I don't know computers, Brenda", I stated simply, putting the pen down and pushing the paperwork back towards her.

"Oh, don't worry", she dismissed my concerns and shoved the documents right back at me, plunking the pen on top of the legal sized forms, a sense of urgency evident in her tone as she gesticulated into the air, pointing again towards the black and gold pen that lay pointing in my direction.

I didn't think she had heard me the first time.

"I have never worked on computers." I started again, as the shrill ringing of the phone on her desk drowned out my sentence in mid air.

"I am headed down right now", Brenda spoke hurriedly into the phone, hastily putting down the receiver.

"We are just about done here and I do have to leave," Brenda stood up and shook my hand. "Just fill out the employment forms and if you have any questions my assistant Kate here, will help you", she smiled, pointing towards the well-groomed and cheerful blond who acknowledged me with a cheerful wave.

Next morning, I set my alarm to ring 30 minutes earlier. The whole family was excited about my new job. It meant unspoken, myriad little pleasures, to each of us; none of which we were ready to articulate, at least not yet. It was too soon to celebrate, even though internally, we were all kinda at it already.

Next morning, as I was getting dressed for the first day of the rest of my life, my son stood at the door with a smile on his face and a lint brush in his hand.

"Have a good day, Mama", he said, lovingly wiping down my jacket all over, the lint brush wobbly in his small hands. His dimpled smile lit up my day, and imbibed within me a new confidence. I admonished him half mockingly, "off you go to school now", I gently smacked his butt. With a loud kiss bang smack on his soft dimpled cheek, I rubbed his crew cut head, sending him on his way. Hugging me again, he kissed me right back, then ran out saying, "I love you too, Mama".

One last look in the mirror, satisfied every pearl was in place, in my ears and around my neck, I turned around to check the back of my skirt was smooth and not crumpled. Then I too was off, with a prayer on my lips and a song in my heart, softly shutting the door behind me, walking boldly, shoulders pushed back and head held high, into a new day.

The train ride to Epping station takes only about 15 minutes, and in that precious time I must have envisioned a lifetime of fulfilled promises and accomplished dreams. I had remained standing the whole time in the train, not wanting to crease my freshly ironed terry cotton skirt. From Epping station I took the bus to North Ryde, a 20 minute bus ride, also spent standing. The bus dropped me off outside the Asia Pacific headquarters of The American Company. I looked up at the big and tall building standing so stately and proud, and a surge of quiet gratitude swept through my heart. The rays of the morning sun reflected off the shiny green glass of the top floors with the Company name proudly displayed in their characteristic blue. I looked up at my new office of the next three months and smiled happily, then pushing back the imaginary strands of hair back from my face, I walked towards the vast expanse of courtyard, interspersed with exotic plants growing in large decorative planters. My heart pounding with excitement and unknown expectations, I went past the swing doors and presented myself at the counter marked 'Reception'.

There were over a dozen of us waiting near the black leather single sofa chairs placed in small circles on plush, deep red carpet. Some people lounged around while the others stood making conversation and introduced themselves to the group. My feet were starting to ache for I had not sat since leaving home this morning, all for the sake of a good, well groomed first impression. I refused when a young fellow who introduced himself as Simon, got up and offered me a seat. I was protesting politely, when almost on cue a tall gentleman walked towards us and in an American drawl introduced himself,

"I am Dan Longfellow, and I will be your trainer", he said, smiling reservedly, but kindly. His wore a dark blue suit with matching tie and while he was impressive he was not intimidating. I was liking it here already.

"Now all of you here for Telephone Investigator positions follow me please, while the Data Entry staff may take the elevators to the Computer rooms on the 11th floor and follow the signs to the new recruits training room".

Dans words were like music to my ears. So we were really going to be paid $13 an hour for telephone work! My computer fears melted away and five of us followed Dan through glass doors on the far right, down the hallway and into what looked like a COMPUTER ROOM!  I was aghast. Tables were arranged around the room in a U shape, each with its own computer, monitor, keyboard and mouse, and royal blue swivel chairs, neatly tucked inside. My heart sank and I felt like throwing up. Dan was calling us by name handing out white placards, with our names, asking us to sit where we pleased, placards facing forward so he could get to know us. Since we were all women, the chatter between the ladies had already started.

Did I say my first name was Chatterbox? In that moment of infinite misery, I had lost my tongue. Having left a message for Daphne to say I would not be coming for the rest of the week, I suddenly felt bereft of all sanity and could sense the loss of the eight guaranteed dollars every hour at Marketing Management earned me. She would know if I went back now. I'd be one of those 'gone rogue' as Daphne would say, referring to the 'ungrateful deserters' that had come and gone before me.

I could feel the blood rush to my face as I realized I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Better fess up, I decided, not one to play Russian roulette with my career. They would find out anyway.

"Excuse me, Dan", I spoke up. "I had told the agency, but I'm sorry, but I don't know computers", I countered, trying hard not to sound defeated .

Dan looked in my direction but pointed towards the chairs and in a voice attempting to be louder than the feminine chatter, announced, "Ladies, please take your seats, we need to get going with the training." "Tea and coffee is in the kitchen facilities across the hall” he continued, “and the bathrooms are at the end of the corridor, past the lifts on the right".

Then there was the sound of casters rolling on the carpet as everyone moved around and took their chairs. Perplexed and flustered, and also tired, I just sat down for the first time since leaving home in the morning. I had done my part, trying to honest, upfront and truthful. My tired feet were sapped of any energy that I may need to protest my ignorance any further.

Dan came around and distributed pens, pencils, notebooks and a training manual.

"Some of you may have not worked on computers before, but that is why I am here'', he said and then paused as if in askance.

"It is my job to train you", he continued "and we will start by turning 'ON' the power button on your computers". He pointed to the elongated switch on his machine.

I touched my forefinger to the elongated button of the computer that sat on my desk, and the monitor screen lit up. A light also came on inside me. Life was putting me in places where destiny wanted to take me. I just had to show up and put in my best effort.

So it was, that day I learned to use a computer. I have not stopped using it since.

From India to Australia, to the USA, I have walked through every door that opportunity held ajar for me. Like a boat adrift at sea, we have drifted with the winds powered by Faith. There have been good times and tough times, there has been laughter and there has been pain, there has been loss and there has been gain. Yet, together we have made it so far, to the home of the brave and the land of the free. Each passing day now brings us closer to the shore, where we are headed to dock our dreams.

Copyright 2009 Veenu Banga

Music

Music: A short story

In her urgency to put the tape into the cassette player, she was fumbling 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 beating 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 with eyes sometimes squinting to get a better look, she held her glance.

He seemed to be 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 1980's 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 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 just 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 that must keep a tab on truant passengers. 

She turned up the music some more, desperate for a reaction from him. He was broad shouldered with a strong back, and she could just 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 were upright accentuating his strong back. He has 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 had felt an uncommon attraction as soon as she had seen him pull up in the black and yellow Bombay cab, as she waved 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 moustache got wet? Since then she had been distracted and was behaving very oddly she admitted to herself, but she just 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 it all the other morning sounds on the increasingly busy street, that prevented him from hearing it?

She knew with certainty that the music was being 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 in 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 window of the cab, as 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.

Copyright Veenu Banga 2006

The irony of history.

Two very brief, and interesting conversations in two days. 

Yesterday, I answered a call from a 0000000 number. I usually don’t answer these kinds of calls, but thought it may be someone from overseas. The guy was selling healthcare, and started asking me questions. Not wanting to be rude, I told him to call me back with a legit phone number, or give me a callback number. He ignored my requests, and kept persisting with his questions. 

He wanted to know if this was my personal number, and I said it did not matter. Then he asked me if I was from India, and I said yes, still patient and polite. I had no intention of ruining his day by hanging up on him. He asked me some more questions, and I told him, they were irrelevant, unless I knew his official credentials and contact details. 

Then, very abruptly, he said, “Go back to India.” I don’t take these things personally, and smiled to myself, and still not wanting to be rude, said “Sure, I will. Thanks”, not wanting to ruin his day. As I said bye, it occurred to me, that I had wasted a good three minutes of my time trying to ‘not ruin his day’, but he had done it to himself, by his bitterness and bigotry. 

This afternoon, I was loading my car, after shopping at Costco. I asked 'Bob' to help load the case of water, when he saw me struggling with a heavy box, and nimbly lifted it up and placed it in the back. Pointing to the avocados he asked how I use them. “I put them on my toast,” I told him and proceeded to show him how to check if they were ripe. 

"My wife is Mexican," he said, and told me he actually had guacamole and tamales for lunch. My envy must have showed, because he elaborated, “she makes everything at home, from scratch.” We got talking and he said his family heritage was from all over, though mainly Scottish and German, but it also included Indian. 

Then we both said together, “Indian!”, and laughed. 

“You do know, how they got that name, don’t you?” I asked. 

“They were looking for you,” he grinned, and laughingly said, “They thought they found you!” 

They say history is written by the Victorious. It probably is. However, history is often forgotten when convenient, even by the Victorious.  

Veenu Banga
10/17/2018.

An APPLE a day..

The following is from my email archives. It is a true story about my then 81 year old mother who spent part of the summer here with me in 2004. She wrote about her 'adventure' herself, and I later edited and modified it. My Mum had already been featured in the Deccan Herald, I think two years prior to when she wrote this.

An APPLE a day: Adventures of a Hyderabadi Grandma in America.

By Vimla Madan

Once upon a time, East meets West was a phrase often used to describe some exotic meeting of minds or ideas. Today, technology has made the world one big Global Village, and the East West phrase is almost obsolete. We have crossed over to another century. 

Many of us in our twilight years have lived the whole gamut of this transition crossing a cultural divide. We have embraced the New World, and the bounties it offers. We have achieved this without losing our Indian Identity. I am happy to report that I am one such Senior Citizen of Hyderabad. 

Born in 1923 in Lahore, now in Pakistan, I was the fourth child in my middle class family with five children born in quick succession. Our father was an English Teacher who imbibed in us the importance of a good education and a love of reading. Our mother took pride in our love of learning. My older siblings and I completed our Masters Degrees, but the Partition in 1947 cut short our careers, as it played havoc with millions of lives across the Indian subcontinent. That chapter of History changed our Geography. 

Our generation was more than physically displaced and we grew up in a hurry, embracing change as a way of life. Life was about making ends meet. We also learned to be grateful. A lot of social taboos were broken. Society opened up, and strangers became the new friends. 

Women went to work outside the home as an economic necessity. I too joined the Government of India in July 1948, through a special scheme that provided jobs for Highly Qualified Displaced Persons. Office work was challenging, but most of all, it was inspiring. A good job gives more than money. At that period in time it also gave us hope. I supplemented my income by giving private tuition early in the morning, before going to office on my Raleigh Bicycle.

After my marriage in 1952, I lived the classic pressures of a middle class life balancing work and home. I raised two children, as best I knew how, putting them through good academic institutions. After 33 years of service I retired from the Ministry of Defense, in 1981. 

My retirement left me with a void in my life. Suddenly I had time I did not know what to do with. My love of plants and painting came to my rescue. I experimented with colors and different mediums, and started to paint all my own Greeting Cards for festivals and birthdays. The idea was well received by family and friends, and each one made some remark or the other about my handiwork. It encouraged me further and today my paintings have become bigger and bolder. My favorite subject is Lord Ganesh. 

In my spare time, I also started to read a lot. I needed to teach myself about herbs to tend to my patch of potted green. Somewhere along the way, books on self-improvement and alternative medicine stirred my interest and I discovered Chinese Medicine, Accupressure, and Sahaj Yoga.

Soon I had my own routine in retirement. I was always conditioned to be content and appreciative of the blessings we receive. My parents always encouraged us to focus on the positive. My children were married and raising their own families. I devoted my time to regular prayer, meditation, and a routine of gentle exercise and some Yoga. 

On a visit to my daughter in Australia in 1995, I met Bill Mackie (more about that here: http://veenubanga.blogspot.com/2014/09/our-own-platform-9-and-half.html) who said he had warded off a prostrate scare with diet. A kind and learned Australian gentleman, Bill introduced me to Ann Wigmore’s books on Wheat Grass Therapy. I added that to my routine, and noticed the improvement in my general health. This encouraged me to learn more about different alternatives practiced by people of different regions. Since then, I am hooked on reading up about these kinds of natural therapies, and have rejoiced in discovering more and more information about the several alternatives available. I always strive for self-improvement. 

After retirement I was now also travelling a lot internationally. My son took me to different parts of America for a holiday with his family in 1997. We visited the Niagara Falls, and till today I feel the wonder in that great white thunder of the wide waterfall whenever I think about it. We also went to many Amusement Parks in Florida, including Disneyland and Seaworld. 

In 1999 I again went to America for my granddaughter’s College graduation in upstate New York. This must be happiness I thought, I felt emotionally and spiritually complete. I had traveled extensively and seen and learnt so much. Life is good, and I felt that I have come full circle. I thank God for all the opportunities He has provided me to see and experience different parts of the world. It could not get any better. I then felt that I had experienced everything.

Somewhere up there, God must have been laughing. Surely He knew one day I would be sitting here in America typing on an Apple iBook Mac. If God would have told me this even five years ago, I would have laughed back thinking, surely the Lord must be jesting, having a laugh at my expense.

Life continues to surprise and amaze me. I marvel at the ability of the human mind, as it rises to meet the occasion. 

In early May, after casting my Vote for the National Election in Hyderabad; I came to visit my grandson who is working in America. While I was excited about my visit, I was disappointed to be away at this exciting time in Indian politics. Most of all I missed the action of the Elections in India. I wondered how the different political parties were faring in the States, and whom the results were favoring. How many were dethroned, how fast fates were changing. I missed the thrill of the unexpected, and the breaking news. 

The print and broadcast media in America covers our part of the world sporadically and intermittently. It can be frustrating for someone like me who likes to keep up with current affairs. 

My grandson Adi felt my sense of futile agitation and came and put his arms around me, as we both sat on the sofa. Then he dropped this sleek ‘thing’ of smooth white plastic on my lap, with a glowing apple engraved on its cover. It was the Laptop Computer I had seen him use. My grandson told me it operates on a wireless Network in their home. "Nanima" he said, "you can take it into your room and read your newspapers there, even on your bed if you wish!"

"Nanima," he insisted, "let me show you this iBook", as I mentally prepared for myself to learn yet another gizmo, after the Remote control and microwaves and mobile phones and all those conveniences that are a part of our daily lives today.

"This iBook has a Track Pad, and it is really easy", he said. I just looked at Adi, silent disbelief and hesitation written large on my face. "Really" he said, "let me just show you" and he held my index finger and placed it on the open computer with its small keypad. I looked at the small screen and sure enough I saw the cursor move in the direction of my finger. I felt a surge of triumph pass through my body, part magic, and part wonder. In that fleeting moment I tasted a new achievement. I knew I had done it.

While I was Internet savvy to a degree and could browse the web, I struggled with the mouse most times and this took the joy out of my browsing.  The track pad made for easier navigation. Sure enough, I was reading the Hyderabad newspapers on the Internet, including my favorite Times of India and Deccan Herald. I also read news on the BBC website, CNN, Apple News, and some others bookmarked on the Apple browser Safari. Now, I am utterly and completely hooked.

Adi shows no surprise and has also taught me to send e-mail using Yahoo. I think the young just expect it of life, and it is up to us to embrace what life in these hi-tech times has to offer. We must learn from the young, by accepting them, so they accept us as we are. If we open our minds to their points of view, we grow. 

We grow in stature with our own deeds, not by decimating others. I am grateful for all these continued blessings, and thank God that at 81, he has given me all these opportunities. I trust it is so I can go to GOD our Maker, as a better person.

As told to Veenu Banga.

Eternity: Two years on and its sinking in.

Its two years today from the day my mother passed away, gone to be with her beloved mother, father brothers and dear sister. She was the last member of the family unit, (her parents and siblings) that walked the Earth.

As Hindus and Sikhs, we believe in reincarnation. Some say that the souls return to be near their dear ones, and this also facilitates the fulfillment of Karma. So I suppose I believe in reincarnation, being raised in a Sikh household that also followed the Hindu traditions. However, I am not very clear on it, and cannot fathom it reasonably, having has no intimate experience with it.

October 16, in 2015 was on a Friday. It was the 289th day of the year. It was also the Fourth day of the important and prominent Hindu Festival of Navrartri. She observed it religiously. I was not with her that year, and have no idea what she did or did not do that day. She had become quite frail and towards the last of her days she looked quite emaciated. It seems her breathing and pulse both became slow, till she finally breathed her last at some point that evening.

I was in Brussels and could not make it in time for the cremation. To be honest, I could not imagine her being dead, let alone being cremated. It was hard for me to comprehend this loss, even though she was 92, and I should have been prepared for it. My children offered to come with me, but I was very resistant. I could not go and see her empty room. It was a very hard thing for me to accept, because for all practical purposes, I became an orphan that day.

There is nothing remarkable, special or unique in my experience of her passing. People die every day, and someday we all will die. Yet, why is this event hard on us? Why does an adult have denial or other issues with the passing of a parent?  Yet, when they are living, we take them for granted. We forget that the next breath in any life is not guaranteed, that death is the one certainty that is promised, with every life that comes on Earth.

So, here it is. Two years on, I am feeling the grief come on now. I feel her loss, its an eternal loss. What is Eternal? Eternity is where our life ends, and we foolishly think its something for ever. As if we will never die. There is no forever. Missing my mother, the grief, are all part of the journey. As is the momentous joys we had together. I am what she helped me become. A part of her lives in me, a huge part of me is made up of her, by her. Her nurturing ensures she survives in memory. Mine, and all those who loved her, and perhaps many of those she loved. That I suppose is Eternity. When we love, and are in return loved, we create our Eternity.

October 16, 2017.
Copyright Veenu Banga.

The Great Eclipse of 21st August 2017.

The Great Eclipse of August 21, 2017.

When I was growing up in India, I remember the Eclipse was a revered happening. My grandmother covered all the windows in the house, and we stayed indoors as far as possible. I think the day was spent in prayer and loads of charitable giving. In fact, people came shouting in the streets, asking for some, which were freely given, along with rice, lentils, fruits and sometimes offerings even of milk.

In the USA, it's a rage and people are planning to drive a long time, and trips to watch the Great Eclipse have been organized months earlier. The price of Special glasses has gone up 600%, if they add even available retail. Fakes too are now being sold, and authorities advise against buying from unscrupulous sellers.

What do the other cultures feel about the Eclipse?

I think if we watch the Eclipse from a place of humility, and reverence, it can be a Spiritual experience. If during totality as some articles say, you can see the planets, it will be a breathtaking and humbling sight.

We forget that we are sharing this planet with others older and more powerful than ourselves. Even many, many trees are older than us, and will be here still after we are gone. Besides the mountains, the rivers, the oceans, and all life that is sustained within them- the marine life, and plant life and wildlife, etc. There's also the Stars and the planets in the sky, part of Creation, and we who are but barely a Speck of a speck in this Grand design, forget that and desire to control the world, succumbing to pettiness of class, creed and color and the like.

Maybe to use this time, to look inside, unite, be humble, and above be grateful that we were given the opportunity walked this beautiful Earth, where before us tread the greats, including the Son of God, and the many Masters and Saints.

Now the Great Eclipse is come and gone, and life goes on. Many astrological predictions were made, and also many made resolutions for a new start. Lets see, how the dice rolls going forward, where we roll with it, or where we take our selves with our own determination. Or will we succumb to the wonders of the next big event, or the next political news? While all that is magnificent and mighty, stands mute, tall and eternal, we human lose ourselves in our own egoistic chatter.  

Veenu Banga
21st August 2017. 10:14 pm.

Does God pay attention to your Elocution?


Written on February 28, 2016, rediscovered today.


On a recent Facebook post it was suggested that pronunciation of Prayers and Mantras is very important. This was in response to someone who translates Sanskrit and Hindi texts into English. I was moved to write this response.


What are your feelings about my arguments? Open to criticism. Here it is:


"The Lord knows all the languages, especially the language of the heart. Surely he will forgive someone who does not know Sanskrit or cannot read Hindi very well, to mispronounce or to communicate with Him in English.


Having said that, as a lifelong student of the spiritual life, I do understand that Sound is the beginning, the Origin as it were of life as we know it. Sound carries with it vibrations, and even different vibrations have their own sound, that even silence has sound, so the point about pronunciation is important, because pronunciation is essentially Sound.


Furthermore, may I humbly add that the pronunciation and even the words of certain mantras have been altered in various parts of the world, as different regions influence speech.


As an example, Om Mani Padme Hum, which is a popular Buddhist chant, is in my understanding derived from Sanskrit, because the religious branch of Buddhism itself is born of Hinduism. This same chant is taught as Om Mani Beme Hum in some Chinese monasteries.


While correct pronunciation does have a very important place in Prayer and chanting, Understanding of the prayer, or its message is also equally vital, because then communication with the Divine comes from the heart.


In that kind of heartfelt and loving communication with the Divine, nothing is impure, imperfect or contaminated. The act of Shabri offering her bitten into, (pre tasted for sweetness) fruits to Lord Rama comes to mind.


The Lord is all forgiving. Even with ignorance and imperfect speech, we can grow if we are striving to change, to evolve to a higher level. Like Valmiki, who was a dacoit, (until his meeting with the sage Narad muni) and was later credited with writing the Ramayana.


The Lord is all forgiving, it is us humans, including some staunch devotees who are unable to find forgiveness in our hearts.


Prayers and mantras written by the greats such as Adi Sankaracharya, and so many others who preceded and followed him, carry the vibrations of not just the words they wrote, but also the Energy and Vibrations of their devotion. Yet, the very same prayer can answer different requests from different devotees, keeping the integrity of the prayer intact, while expanding its scope. Even abundance and riches have different forms, so the same prayer of abundance can manifest differently.


When the works of these ancient greats and Enlightened Masters are translated into English, they reach a wider audience, penetrating the consciousness of a larger humanity.


The Purpose and the message of these Prayers and Masters is better served by translation into a widely understood language such as English.


Even in the originating motherland of these Slokas, India with its hundreds of dialects and several regional languages, it is English that is the uniting language of the country.


Therefore better mispronounced, than missing out on the living treasures that is in the messages and wisdom of the Indian scriptures, prayers, mantras and Bhajans."


Veenu Banga 28 February 2016.