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. 

Orange Avenue

 The Cafe, it’s on Orange Avenue. 

We sat there around a little square table, 

And I could have sworn I felt you go by. 

But when I looked, there was no one.

Then, I glanced up towards the door, 

Expecting you to be standing there, 

And then, you’ll come in and as you do,

With a determined gait, and the joy in your eyes

Hiding in plain sight, on a softly smug face,

You would walk determinedly towards me.

We were there so long, that group of friends,

No one felt alone, except sometimes I felt 

Incomplete. No, no, not me, something about the afternoon.

That’s how you operate though. 

That’s the modi’s operandi, with which you visit me. 

The other day it was at another place, and sometimes

It’s even when I’m home with so much to do,

And so much going on. How do you do it? How? 

How effortlessly you sneak in, front and center, around 

Always there, sometimes making me more aware,

Sometimes making me feel annoyed, but always 

The feeling. Of you being around.

Today, in Orange Avenue, I decided. Decided 

To put an end to my waiting. No more waiting.

No more expectation, no, no, no. No more of this 

This restlessness, this anticipation. They’re all so limiting.

What was I thinking? What would happen when you came? 

We would talk, about books, maybe. About music? Yes,

I think that’s more of a probability. I think you’re the perfect man, 

Simply, because I know you have music running in your veins. 

Nevertheless, how long, how long can we talk? How long critique? 

Hunger, thirst, sleep, shelter, work, day, night, shower, recreation.

There’s so much to life that drags us away. Responsibilities.

So what if you came? At some point all of my questions will be resolved. 

Then what? Maybe, familiarity with your mind, will disappoint me.

No, not maybe, it’s bound to be. I think so. 

So no more expecting, waiting, anticipating. I prefer it this way.

Open ended acquaintance. I don’t want to know if I’ve passed or failed.

If your mind meets mine at any common ground. 

All those other questions and scenarios that crop up in relationships. 

Any and all kinds. So what a relief, at the The Cafe, in Orange Avenue,

I decided, I prefer it this way. Knowing it’s pending, our conversation,

Knowing also, it may never be. That’s the way I like it. 

Forever having something to look forward to.

Knowing, also, that when perfection is in one’s imagination, 

It can be revised and further perfected. So, we, you and I 

Are constantly on a journey, incomplete, all.

The journey, you, and maybe I, as I hone my craft

Of creating you, just the way I want you to be. 

Veenu Banga

12:06 am

1/12/2023.

For a few minutes, all of a sudden

 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

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.

Links

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. 

Veenu Banga

November 5, 2023

4:32am