Relay Race- short story

Our town might have had one of the best engineers to design the gates of ‘Queen Victoria Park’. Since my childhood days, thousands of kids have swung on the iron gates and it still stands majestically holding my grandson between its slender vertical bars. The huge boughs of the Peepal tree near the gate fanned in the scent of fried cashew nuts sold outside by few black skinned, gray haired ugly-looking women. As a reflex to Peepal tree’s call, my hand scanned my shirt pocket. Scanning my shirt pocket is an easy job; it hardly holds an old fountain pen, a small pocket diary scribbled throughout with random information, a small bit of ‘to be bought’ items list written legibly in my wife Gayathri’s handwriting, few coins and few rupee notes totalling a value less than one hundred. My hand pressed my pocket, like Dr.Seetharam does with his chill stethoscope during winter fever. With the five rupee coin excavated from my pocket, I walked briskly towards the gate. The thin summer air was thick with the scent of cashew. In exchange of that five rupee coin, I got a small pack of cashew nuts and a murmur from the wry ugly face “now a days you wont get a cup of water for five rupees and people want cashew nuts..”. Ignoring the comment, I gently opened the shabby pack revealing bright yellow coloured cashew nuts. I took one cashew; it looked like a penguin with a broad hip and a narrow neck; its curved neck was charred due to excess heat from the clay ovens in the thatched roof huts of those ugly women. Appreciating the beautiful symmetry of cashew, I felt the fine dimples spread over its golden yellow surface. I happily allowed my appetite empty the packet. I slowly unwrapped the paper cover that till few minutes back held those daffodil cashew nuts. One side of the wrapper was decorated by a black and white photograph of some actress, whose name I don’t remember. The other side had a quote of Albert Einstein about Mahatma Gandhi. I carefully tore along the black lines embroidering the quote and slid it into my shirt pocket; who knows, someone might have thought that I’m actually storing the photograph of that actress; but I don’t really care what others think about me.
When I got up to deposit the remaining wrapper safely inside municipality’s never-cleared dust bin, I saw Vichu (Viswanathan) coming towards me from the park library. Soon we were sitting in the concrete bench under the neem tree, the one which we have been sharing for hundreds of evenings since our retirement. “Ha Nana (Narayanan) where is your grandson Ramu?” When Vichu asked, I realized that I had forgotten Ramu for quite a while. Startled, I turned back and was relieved to see the iron gates still holding him between its vertical bars. Pressing his palms on the concrete bench, Vichu bent back to relax his posture and enjoy the neem breeze. Breaking the silence, he farted, controlled explosions in the park air. May god bless all the holy hands that planted the trees around us which instantly purified the air contaminated by Vichu’s emissive presence. The Peepal tree’s breeze this time cleared the odour and relieved me the effort of wrinkling my nose tip. Vichu spared an unembarrassed casual smile, stroked his belly and said “today’s culture….”
I was surprised. In general, eye brows broaden in response to pleasant surprises and vice versa. This time, my eye brows contracted when Vichu attempted to reason out today’s culture for his invisible gas bubbles. Relieving my surprise, Vichu continued, “Today’s culture has ruined our lives. Those days, we had healthy food; spinach and vegetables that grow above the earth’s surface enriched with positive energy. The diet was balanced then. But, today’s culture have shifted towards pizzas and coke, hardly my daughter-in law cooks vegetables. Mention not the technological demons. The food, already poisoned with artificial chemicals is cooked with microwave. And what remains is only gas trouble and stomach ulcer.”
Being a part of retired men association, such bane for technology is not new. I think the hatred for technology stems out from the ignorance of not understanding the same.
“Vichu… I agree with you that our eating habits have westernized. But, weren’t we different from our previous generation? May be we didn’t had pizzas, but we adopted chappathis which were not a part of any of our parent’s dinner menu. The increased work pressure has decreased the available time and energy and hence increases the sales of packed foods. And about your curse on microwave oven, Vichu, don’t you remember how upset your father was when you bought the gas stove. He feared that the inflammable gas stove may one day shatter the whole house into pieces. We were different from our previous generation and so are this generation from us.” Gayathri’s words echoed in my ears. Once when I was upset with my son, Gayathri told me, “You were not like what your father expected and your son is not like you expect him to be.” Gayathri might have mentioned it casually. Truth, even if casually mentioned is indispensable.
Vichu was silent for a moment; may be his emotions were pricked by my mentioning about his father’s displeasure on gas stove or perhaps he was in agreement with my argument.
“But Nana…”, Vichu continued “Its not just about food. I’m talking about overall degeneration of this generation. It’s disgusting to see people being stingy in their costume and still be unabashed of it. Disco clubs and night-out parties have become a part of family life. Movies and internet spread venom and people are trapped into it.”
“Vichu, I think there is some problem in our viewing the next generation. We are unable to accept changes and at the same time we fail to realize that we ourselves had introduced some changes in this society. Talking about costume, our previous generation wore only traditional dhoti. Did you continue that? In fact, you were the first one to wear bell-bottoms in our college. I still remember your blushing when kamala told that you looked like Rajesh Khanna when you wore that coffee-brown colour bell-bottoms and tiny executive check, long collared full sleeve shirt. It’s a matter of fact that our social system is changing, may be the rate of change of social life is faster in this generation than ours.”
Vichu interrupted before I finish, “Nana, you mean to say that everything is allright?”
Evening sun had already started fading. Ellipsoid bulbs of sodium vapour lamp came to life giving birth to continuous flood of yellow light attempting to compete with the setting sun over the local area of concrete bench. Vichu’s discontent on my supporting this generation was visible in his facial changes, now illuminated by the monochromatic light flowing through the translucent (once transparent) glass panes of the sodium vapour lamp.
“Vichu, I’m just trying to say that every element in this society is changing. Few years back, we were the source of change and we didn’t realize then that we were changing. Now, when this generation is changing, we become mere observers. According to our parents, we were not right and according to our grandparents, our parents were not right. If you extend the time scale into both past and future, you would always observe that the older generation is reluctant to the changes of the present generation. And whether such changes are good or bad, we can’t comment. Because what we witness as changes are just symptoms, symptoms of something bigger and sacred. Yes, all these changes are just symptoms of another slow invisible change of our society’s value system. Among the infinite changes in technology, social life, dress, eating habits etc, some may positively influence and contribute for the betterment value system and some may not..”
Ramu came running to hug me, with soiled shoes and sweat laden T-shirt. When Ramu hugs me I forget everything, even my line of thought; but this time I didn’t and continued, “Vichu... Life is like a relay race, each individual run only for a certain distance and handover the baton to the next. Similarly, each generation run a certain distance holding the baton of ‘change’ and hand it over to the next generation. So, lets not worry about this relay race, but shall try to channelize the these changes to the overall objective of a better value system for future.” Vichu this time appeared to be relaxed and extended a smile. We walked towards the iron gates built by an unknown ‘best engineer’.
We crossed a couple of young men in their thirties, who might have come to the park with their kids and probably were returning then. In that silent atmosphere, amidst the soothing music of Peepal tree, those voices were clearly audible. In a hoarse voice one of them spoke, “these kids... God, they are no way like our generation. How nice we were as kids? I am really scared about the future of this new generation.”
Vichu pressed my hands, a gentle sign of approval…

That Stupid thing!!!!!- A short story

My name is … ah ! who cares about my name in the Chennai city holding more than 7.5 million individuals, including the yesterday born grandson of my friend, Srinivasan. Even the one day old cute kid whose feeble cry from his teeth free empty mouth making his rosy cheeks red, will not care to talk to me one day. From the one day old kid to people who have only one day left to live in this funny world, nobody wants to know about me. The 7.5 million individuals in this Chennai city, some percentage of whom I witness daily, some other percentage I witness rarely and the majority I never witness, to me appears like 7.5 million individual societies. All because of that stupid thing.

The basic principle of human society is to interact and cherish relationship. Every individual influences the society. The society is run by the response of each individual to the responses of other individuals. Everything was fine till few years back, until the stupid thing made its presence in the peaceful Chennai. From dawn to dusk, even while sleeping, people need only one thing, that stupid thing, that hand-held stupid mobile phone. Nowadays, I’m not seeing people around; I just see 7.5 million mobile phones roaming around holding human beings with it. Earlier, 8 out of 10 people I encounter used to greet me, but now; sometimes even I wonder whether I exist or not.

That day I really thought the guy has gone insane; what else you think about someone who talks and laughs by himself without anyone around in the middle of the road. Another day, when I went to milk booth, the person filling the decade old broken chair inside the cash counter asked, “ya tell me” and I replied “two packets”. He started shouting, “I don’t care who you are and let me see how you get it”. I was stunned and twisted my complexly entangled brain cells to think what the problem in buying two packets of milk is. Thank god! Only then I realized that he was talking-to someone through his mobile phone. Everybody everywhere is busy talking to someone nowhere in mobile phones. The whole world looks like a lunatic asylum where every individual confines to himself, an aberration in the society. But, since the whole society is behaving like infinite individual societies, only I look like an aberration for them. The black colour, grey colour and many other coloured plastic boxes with rubber buttons and a small screen have eaten away all my friends and relatives from me.

It’s long since I’ve talked even to my daughter. Normally when she comes home, she complains about the weather and also grieves that she had to walk a long distance. Compressing her big eyes, her cute little face wrinkles when she complains. I love to see that expression and often tease her for that. She’s indeed beautiful and like her mom, she’s a chatter box. During dinner, we sit together and we listen to her while she narrates incident by incident since that morning. Whether it is a quarrel with her classmate or an appreciation from her teacher, her food won’t digest until she completes the whole days stuff. The practice continued for years even after her joining the job, but until recently. Nowadays, she enters answering a call, later get hooked up in another call and responds to some other call even while dinner. No more narration from her and no more wrinkles over her face. All because of that stupid mobile phone. I feel like puking over it.

The worst part occurs during my daily travel to office. I use electric train for commuting to office. It’s a half an hour journey and I used to enjoy it very much. We, the co-passengers had formed our own local groups. The first one of the group will reserve seats for people boarding in subsequent stations. Our group mostly comprised of old men, Mr.Sankaran whose pot belly hits the passenger in opposite seat, the bald headed Balakrishnan who have never missed the sandal scratch on his forehead, a proud symbol which he used to portray that he is a keralite and Mr.Shyam,smart and handsome, an odd man in our group used to discuss about varied topics. Though we had never been to each others houses, we knew all of our relatives, functions at our homes and everything personal about us. Similarly, there were other groups; those who play cards and makes lot of noise, who sing film songs using compartment walls as drums, who stands on foot board to look around girls entering each station and so on. Basically, people of similar interests got together and enjoy. But, now, everything has changed. People are idle. Though they travel together throughout the year, they don’t even know each other’s names. They are always busy talking to someone or other in their stupid mobile phones.

Another group of people sit idle like Egyptian mummies. Yes, they are listening to FM radio in mobile phones. They sway gently by the cradle vibration of the train and I think they liked it as the swaying is sometimes coherent with the rhythm of the music that stupid mobile phone vomits. Once, I sat in between these swaying people, suddenly when one started talking to some stranger. He didn’t care about his neighbours and was revealing all his personal details. From his monotonous conversation (believe me, its killing to listen only one half of conversation), I understood that he is a diamond merchant and is going to Europe next week. Had my dad not inculcated some good value system, I could have used the free info to own few diamonds. If I go on listening to such numerous one sided conversations, I’m sure I will go mad one day. Already, my wife complains that my behaviour is awkward.

But one relief is that this train trauma will last only this Thursday. Tired of this old man who still uses his secretary to check email, my company thought that they should get rid of me at the earliest opportunity possible. Though I would have loved to work for some more years to avoid being with my wife for the whole day, the very thought of everyday train journey made me love my wife.

The most awaited Thursday also came at last. Since nursery school, I’ve been a part of many farewells. Every farewell is associated with mixed emotions, a grief of losing the past and excitement of entering the future, like a cup of water after eating gooseberry, a sourness mixed with sweetness. Relishing the past memories and expecting the future moments, I was experiencing the last official 30 minutes train journey. The train stopped in between at local stations and the railway platforms exchanged passengers and all the passengers with stupid mobile phones. A lady clad in a bright yellow saree reflecting the morning mood was standing near the entrance, perhaps for getting down in the next station. The breeze, which remains still at railway station, gushes with heavy force when the train moves blowing the lady’s yellow saree exposing her waist. Sweat dropped from her first waist tire to the second, slowly, very slowly like the collaboration of left over water droplets on an automobile windscreen after rain. But this sweat is an irritating feeling, especially in places like Chennai, the sea water provides enough liquor for the sun that the atmosphere is always fully drunk unable to suck even one drop of sweat from us leaving all the salt laden sweat to trip over clothes making us embarrassed with white salt patches. Everyday, I face the same problem. My loving wife always have something or the other to tell me in the last two minutes before I leave and I have to run from the railway gate to platform within 30 seconds at least to push myself into the last compartment in font of the white uniformed black skinned guard. When I force myself to equilibrium holding the passenger rails, I gasp severely accompanied by wild oscillation of my drooping belly like the bellows of a harmonium. My heart beats rapidly pumping through all possible blood vessels and spit sweat on my forehead and neck. The sweat collects and flows down through the side and reaches my earlobes. I feel tickled, try to wipe it off and I drop my bag in the attempt. The pot belly compels me to get my trousers stitched with the only known tailor Manickam as there is no standard size that fits my disfigured physique. While gasping, my belly pushes my trousers and the white lining peeps out. I can’t see it as y belly prevents, but can realize it by the teasing half-lipped smile from some teenage girls opposite to me.

Being the last day, I started early and escaped the embarrassment of white lining from the teenagers. But, today the teenagers were replaced by the lady inside yellow saree. She was deeply involved in her mobile phone that she was not even aware or didn’t care to be aware of her waist getting exposed. But some college guys who were swaying to the music inside the stupid mobile phone were fully aware of the lady’s exposed waist. I felt sick, but soon forgot about it as I entered my office.

Evening, my office staff hosted a farewell for my retirement day. All of us assembled in the conference hall and for the first time, I took the leading chair in the dais. Most of the people gathered 5 minutes before the scheduled time. Perhaps, the aroma of cutlet behind the dais might have attracted them. We heard some unheard music when one of the guys excused himself with his mobile saying, “hello, ya Ravi speaking”. Soon, one more lady followed the same way. By now, Ravi had come and Gopal received a call. I’m sure it is his fiancée. Despite his dark skin, he blushed; but I had been to his engagement and I personally feel that she’s just an ordinary looking female and doesn’t deserve so much blushing. Within 5 minutes, everyone around me was talking to someone who is not there then and I stood aloof experiencing the unfathomable truth of my loneliness. Under some strange permutation all the potential friends of the gathering were silent for five minutes and hence could finish my farewell.

First our G.M spoke and was followed by many others, my bosses, peers and subordinates. As a custom, they all spoke nice about me. I felt proud despite my complete knowledge that all these are alive only for few more minutes and will vanish like Cinderella’s chariot the moment I get out of the dais.

Before that moment, my G.M garlanded me and gave me a nicely packed gift box wrapped in satin ribbon. I was so delighted, especially at the packing and satin ribbon. With so much of excitation, I slowly opened the box. There was a small greeting card signed by all saying “you will be with us always”. I slowly took the greeting card and found a … god !... the stupid mobile phone.

Escape from Exile

Escape from Exile- by Robert Levy

4^th march 08

On a dry Sunday afternoon, amma drove me out to flouring mill. As I sat next to the poorly maintained flour mill shouting at its top gear, I noticed an old book store beside. Scanning the whole rack for half an hour I found nothing. On my way out when I was trying to pull some book, one stack of books fell down and when I tried to rearrange those, I got hold of a nice old book, “Escape from Exile” by Robert Levy.

The image in the front page was so captivating with a wonderful sketch of a boy clad in fresh bottle green uniforms hiding behind a rock along with an impalpable animal watching a red uniformed soldier on horse back. I was sure that it is a fantasy adventurous novel, may be prescribed for children.

I didn’t want to leave the book which cost Rs.15/-. You won’t believe me, the 180+ pages novel I finished in a single working day. A very interesting adventure of a little boy Daniel, who suddenly is lost from this world and reaches another world called Lithia, which is still like the medieval age. There is a conflict going on in Lithia for ruling the kingdom. Like most stories one of them is a good natured and other is the villain. Daniel, got a unique ability of talking to animals and he befriended a horse, a poisonous snake and samkit, a strange animal. The story is that Daniel helps the good natured one to regain the land. But he was originally with the villain and the story is mainly about his escape to reach the hero (heroine. The good natured Lauren is a lady). Finally Daniel after his work returns to world and only while returning he understood that he was taken to that world for a purpose of saving samkits from extinction.

A good one to read, I recommend to all those who love reading tinkle, chandamama, gokulam etc. J

A train to Pakistan

Train to Pakistan

A wonderful story capable of squeezing every drop of blood in any heart. Its unbelievable that it’s a novel. Kushwant singh is indeed a great story teller. Till reading this novel, I didn’t have great opinion about Kushwant singh. In fact, I had associated him as a talented obscene writer. But I was really moved after reading the novel. The sufferings of post-independent India and the communal ferocity and clashes; its difficult to find a fiction to describe it so realistically. And the story is about a village where muslims and hindus were at peace, undisturbed by the clashes outside. A murder at the village followed by a train full of dead Sikhs disturbed the peaceful pages of the novel. I just loved the climax where a rogue (who incidentally can be called a hero) gives his life for his lady love.

My Sandal statue- Short story

It’s around one week. I’ve changed myself completely in the past one week. Neatly washed and pressed trousers; starch dipped shining cotton shirts perfectly tucked in; aligning the pressed lines of shirt and trouser…. It is altogether a new Ramu. Of course, whatever styling I do, it could be on the choice less uniform of khakhi trousers and white shirt. I think it was bought around two years back. My dad has promised me a new set if I score distinction in my coming 10^th board exams. Otherwise, the only possibility of getting a new uniform is to grow your thighs so big that your trousers can’t enter. Even then every inch of the cloth will be explored for alteration and force-fit on your extra grown muscles. I think that’s applicable to almost all middle class and lower middle class families.

51 J, the bus I was travelling in, stopped with a jerk in ‘Nehru statue’ stop. I turned back; yes, she was there sitting like a sandal statue. How beautiful she is? Wavv. Her smile sparkled like diamonds. She was talking and enjoying with her school mates. Standing in the front foot-board, with roaring Leyland engine beside, to me, her conversation appeared like“deaf and dumb news” relayed every Sunday noon in doordarshan channel. I was expecting a glance, just a glance from her and all the devils surrounding her won’t allow that. When she took a 180 degree turn, she took a glimpse of me. She stretched both her eyebrows in unison, her already smiling lips spread further to acknowledge my presence. That’s all, that’s more than sufficient to take me heaven. She smiled, yes, a living sandal statue smiled at me.

I first saw her about a week back; a week after our school- reopening. I was travelling in the same 51J bus when a glass- like smooth voice asked “can you get me a ticket please?” I turned back in the direction of honey filled voice. There stood the same sandal statue with reddened cheeks. Sweat sprouted over her forehead like morning dew dressing the bushy leaves. I lost myself for a moment. After some time, I looked at her direction to check whether she was looking at me. I was disappointed; my conscience asked me “why should she look at you?” Yes, why should she? Rather why or how could any girl look at me?, a slender dark figure, with dirty uncombed hair, ugly face, wrinkled white and khaki uniform and bathroom slippers under the feet. Which girl could be interested in me? But my sense was working only part of the time; rest of the time my romantic emotions dominated and expected a glance from her.

One evening is sufficient for any 10^th standard guy to collect information about any girl in his town. She was residing in “Chetti street”, her father a peon in sub-register office, the old building constructed during british period which was once the office of the then collector, Sir.Robert Franklin, whose dust-laden portrait still hangs on the first room of the office. Her father has been recently transferred and hence her admission was easy in Little flower convent, the town’s biggest girl’s school, next to S.M.V, the town’s biggest boy’s school, where I’m studying. The best part was, I even got her name in the same evening. But it was not a big task. There is a lane next to her house and I stood motionless for about two hours in the lane filled with excreta and urine of local street dogs and street boys. I overheard some conversation and understood her name as ‘Gayathri’. Ga.. ya .. thri.. three syllables- Gayathri, Gayathri, Gayathri… every time I recite her name, I’m thrilled, I feel some extra millimeters of blood gushing through my blood vessels. Never before I felt that Gayathri is such a beautiful name.

Next day, I took bath early, combed my hair, applied an extra layer of ‘cuticur talc’ lying on my sister vidya’s table, applied sacred ash as a small scratch just above my nose, pressed my uniform, tucked in my shirt and when I came out, I knew I was looking handsome despite my unchangeable original ugly face. Vidya murmured “something happened to this stupid” and hurried to kitchen to share her opinion with my mother. My mother came out and exclaimed, “what happened to you suddenly?”. I just smiled and avoided a reply. I faced similar queries from next house mangalam aunty, opposite house sundaram uncle and of course, all my pals. I had to smile hiding all my anxieties and say “nothing” repeatedly to everyone, like a new student introducing him with the same two lines with everyone he come across. I stretched my thick lips attempting to have an ever smiling face; somewhere someone told me that everyone looks handsome when they smile. I reached the bus stop 5 minutes earlier making myself doubly sure not to miss the bus. The acrid smell of the unburnt diesel filled the air and the bus turned towards the stadium. One day of familiarity was more than sufficient to recognize her much before the bus halted. Though the previous day, I had seen her only for few moments, she had filed my dreams throughout the night. Gayu ( I, now prefer her calling ‘Gayu’) boarded the bus allowing her worn out sandals kiss the bus floor. Gayu looked more beautiful than the previous day. I thought even sun felt a little proud when his orange rays were reflected by this angel’s black, oiled plaited hair. A black ribbon was choked to death mercilessly around her hair plaits. Sacred vermilion and a synthetic sticker decorated her crescent shaped forehead; the vermilion diluted and formed a small stream by her sweat spat by her soft skin. Her cheeks were soft like butter and bristles of milky hair grown hither thither shone brown in sunlight. Her wheatish skin hid her teenage pimples. Her white shirt showed patches of blue tint; like my mother, her mother also might be using cheap dye-powder. In our schools, white means blue. If anyone wears a neat white shirt, our physical education master, a man in clowny cap and old fashioned sunglass would come and question, “Cant your mom dip your shirt in blue dye at least once a week?”. I hope even Gayu’s school might be same case, wherein the physical education master could be some funny lady. Gayu’s green skirt had already turned pale. With my experience in wearing old uniforms, I could bet that the skirt was at least 2 years old. Probably, her mother too might be using the stinking, lather-free, yellow detergent cake costing two rupees in civil supply stores. Once again the same honey floated in air, “Excuse me, ticket please”. I turned to her and she too showed some sign of recognition. We smiled at each other. I felt like floating in the heaven, the fog filled place decorated fabulously with beautiful ladies dancing always. That’s what they show about heaven in ‘Ramayana’ serial on Sunday morning.

Next day, I had already bought the ticket for her. I saw the sandal statue boarding in stadium stop. Still, I pretended to take no notice of her, just to hear the honey filling the air “excuse me”. I turned and gave her the ticket. She looked surprised; she was indeed beautiful in all her emotions. Soon we ended in a giggle and again I was in heaven.

Two days went by and I became her conductor. Just for her, just for her smile, just for the angel, I never mind being a conductor throughout my life. The routine continued in the evening also. I gradually detached myself from my friends. Evening, I got down in her bus stop, walked with her till the corner of “Chetti Street”; those walks I was longing for… It is always s pride to walk with girls; that too beautiful girls. One set of friends would have a great regard for you, enquiring “how did you do that?” and I advice, “love is not just about looks, its all about conversation between hearts, which you dumb fellows can’t understand”, I prophesied sounding similar to some ultrasonic communication, that narrow eyed, broad mouthed physics sir said some time back. Another set of friends, quite opposite; envy you for your achievement and make fun of you proclaiming, “love is not for brave men” or “it is not love, but infatuation” and many other such theories. I ignored both the category of friends and showed no emotions, for I saved al my emotions for my dear Gayu.

Today is the seventh day and in the past one week we have talked enough about ourselves. I was longing for this for my whole life and now its happening. What next? I should declare my love. I’ve to start; obviously, she a poor Indian conservative girl cannot be expected to open up. In fact, when you propose, she should not accept my love immediately. She should resist, weep and curse my intentions. I should understand this signal, follow her, ask sorry, plead her and after two or three days, she will smile accepting my love. If otherwise, she accepts my love immediately, she will lose her value, it gives an impression that she is longing for someone’s proposal and hence will be considered as a bad cultured girl. I know all these social limitations. While getting down at my school stop, I said “Gayathri (I’m not yet brave enough to address her Gayu directly), evening, I shall wait for you in ‘Kumar book stores’, we shall go together. She nodded; how beautiful she nods !!!

Evening, I stopped at a road side flower shop and enquired how much does a rose cost. An old lady chewing betel leaves looked at me. It was unusual for a school boy to drop in at this hour and that too ask for a rose. Usually, only married men buy flowers for their women folk in late evenings. Ladies, either buy for themselves or for temples. Even if a school boy drops in, he only buys jasmine or marigold for temples and never a rose. Though rose is a symbol of love, no youth is brave enough to propose a girl in public and all the roses born in the town mercilessly went to vinayaga temple. I ignored the old lady’s surprise and asked again “that red rose”. The red rose looked beautiful with its half-opened petals bearing droplets of chlorinated municipal water sprinkled by the old lady. She said it costs one rupee and fifty paise. “Ah”, I could eat one samosa, I sighed. I thought for a while; at last my heart won and I kept the red rose safely in my bag. As agreed, we met in ‘Kumar book stores’ and proceeded towards bus stand. We approached “Gandhi Park”, the only park of the town. Welcoming us, the cashew tree and neem tree at the entrance smiled. Few ladies were selling cashew nuts; they might have roasted it from the fallen cahew fruits. We felt the cool breeze and Gayu’s hair danced on her fore head. I first envied, and later got upset at the breeze’s ability to embrace my Gayu without my permission. We crossed the ‘Park library’. Now the library has only four walls. Last year there was a fire accident and the library went into ashes. Some boks were eaten by the fire and the remaining decorated the ‘Old book stores’ opposite to library, after officially registering it as “burnt in fire accident”. I sensed my heart beating unusually faster. I wanted to declare my love with the red rose. I looked around. The whole park was littered and stinking. Gandhi Park is a free toilet. Instead of building parks, had the government started building public toilets, we could have implanted the discipline among Indians of not shitting on mother earth’s face. Suddenly my knowledge constrained to my town spread its political wings for a national toilet problem.

Anyway, I decided not to declare my love then and walked silently with Gayu. When we crossed the park’s other gate, Gayu smiled and said, “Ramu, can you buy two tickets for tomorrow’s evening show in ‘Swami theatre’?”. I was overwhelmed. I think Gayu might have understood my impatience, my shyness to propose and now she’s attempting an ambience to facilitate that. I’m indeed lucky to have a Gayu as my life partner. I nodded like our temple elephant. I knew the ticket selling Satish of ‘Swami Theatre’. He is our cricket team player. I just had to say that his stokes are like Sachin’s and immediately got two tickets.

Next day, I reached ‘Swami Theatre’ on time. Evening mood was creeping in the town. After a hot tiring day, sun was retiring behind the hills dipping the town in grey light. Buffaloes, soaked in nose-deep water were driven out of the pond. Hurricane lamps and kerosene lamps were lit on the road-side shops whereas halogen lamps and fluorescent lamps in show-rooms. Some mischievous boy threw stone at a pig and it ran out of gutter splashing dirty water. I leaned over the parapet wall without acknowledging the happenings around, for my mind was fully occupied by Gayu. The excitement of sitting beside Gayu for two whole hours spread all over the billion cells of my body. I planned, rehearsed how to start, how to talk and how to behave with Gayu.

There at last, my sandal statue is coming. Wavv!! the flesh coloured velvet full skirt and a three fourth sleeved black tops embroidered with some shining objects made Gayu look like an angel. Her hair was floating in the evening breeze. This time I didn’t envy the breeze, coz now Gayu is mine. Only when you are uncertain, you will have the entire world’s possessiveness. She came near me with a smiling face. Somehow, today’s smile looked better than her previous smiles. She too might be using ‘Cuticura talc’, the fragrance from her seemed familiar. Before I got relieved from her beauty shock, she started talking “Ramu, I know that you will get the tickets. Stupid Vimal told that all the tickets are sold out”. Vimal must be her brother. I smiled; which brother in the world has done favours for his sister? I still remember Vidya’s last school day. Vidya wanted me to buy a sachet of shampoo. School day is the only day of the year we are allowed to use shampoo. My mother claims that shampoo makes you bald and never allows us to touch it. We generally use a powder made of hibiscus leaves mixed with something else, a non-patented special composition my mother inherited from her previous generations. Vidya was excitement of using shampoo to float her hair in the air and she had already oiled her longhair. Despite her requests, I went to cricket match without buying her shampoo leaving her gloomy for a week.

I think Vidya’s comment about me will not vary much as Gayu’s comment about Vimal. I politely said, “Its ok Gayathri” and tried my best possible smile, which I have now perfected after whole night secret practice in front of the mirror. One guy in red T-shirt and blue jeans approached us. “Oh yeah, I forgot”, Gayu paused till he came near us and then continued, “Vimal, this is Ramu, I told you na?”. She turned to me, “Ramu, this is Vimal, my boy friend”. I stood still and watched my Gayu, oops sorry, Miss Gayathri getting into ‘Swami Theatre’ with Vimal.

Yellow butterfly- Short story

Appa was shaving, a ritual, he never misses thrice a week. I thought of waiting till he completes the entire ritual, which includes dismantling his age-old razor, washing it in a mug of water cleansed by 10ml diluted ‘dettol’ solution followed by his packing the razor in plastic box. There is now no trace of “Adyar Ananda Bhavan”, once inscribed on the plastic box. It happens; whenever any container, polythene wrapper or for that matter anything, before discarding, will receive a comment “will be of some use” and it escapes its entry to waste box. That’s the history of shaving set container of appa; someone bought some sweets sometime back and the container later got promoted to the status of shaving set box of Dr.Ganesan, Professor, Govt. Engg College, Madras. Dr.Ganesan (my appa) emerged into drawing room; his moustache was not properly shaved. When I commented, he replied “At this old age, who else other than your mother will be willing to have romance with me. Ah! And your mother, she doesn’t mind this”, winking his eyes, he smiled with a satisfaction of cracking a great joke. Since I was about to ask something serious, I didn’t encourage my lips to respond to his joke. I asked him “appa, what have you decided?” In the past one week, I don’t know how many times I’ve asked him the same question. Appa’s nice smile sheltered behind his unshaved moustache. “America is not fit for me. Madras is a wonderful place and am enjoying…” I knew very well what he is going to tell now. I wanted appa and amma to come and live with me, vidya (my wife) and surya (my kid) in America. I was irritated by his denial of my proposal about his shifting. Owing my respect to him, I killed the emergence of my irritation in my words, but my face showed; my eye brows contracted, front teeth contacted each other, flesh beneath my cheeks expanded and I said, “appa, its around a decade I’m there in America. I’m worried that you and amma are alone here. Surya is now three years old. Do you know how much she misses her grand parents?”

I suddenly recollected my childhood days with my grand parents. Grand parent have a great impact on a child’s character. Appa knows all these things and hence I decided not to explain him how important he is for my surya. I continued, “You have everything there; a big house, a car, temple, Indian neighbours and what not?” I paused for a second, “Appa, why don’t you understand?” I think he was waiting for me to finish. He lighted incense sticks in pooja room, applied sacred ash and vermilion on his broad fore head and chanted few slogas in front of goddess ‘Saraswathi”. The pooja room is a very small one, hardly one person can stand comfortably. Before my every exam, appa used to chant in the same pooja room and applies sacred ash on my fore head, saying, “The questions will be simple and you will do well. All the best my son”

I was firm in my decision. I want my parents to live with me I America. Whats wrong in it? I think it’s my right as well as duty to take them with me. How many parents in the world are longing to live with their children and are mercilessly trapped into old age homes. Amma has no problem in coming to America. Only appa is adamant in staying in Madras. He was getting ready to his college. I told him that am accompanying him to college, as I don’t have anything serious to do around. Appa looked with an initial surprise, and smiled, an indication which I understood that he is pleased to have me at college. My intention was to convince him somehow by today evening so that I can arrange for his visa and other formalities soon.

Appa is a great person. I have always admired him for his values and love. He is in the teaching profession for more than 30 years, yet enthusiastic about his profession. He is known as a student friendly professor and his courses are considered to be easy-grade course (to some extent it’s true). His philosophy is that no one can learn anything within a semester in college. His aim is never to make the student master of all the formulae in the textbook, but to induce a curiosity in the minds of students who can have a constant search for excellence. I remember, once he took ‘metallurgy’ course for mechanical engineers. It is one course which is unanimously hated by all mechanical students. But, at the end of their final year, more than 50% of students went for specialization in metallurgy. I always admire his principles, discipline and definitely his teaching.

But he is testing my patience. We walked across the huge old iron gates, the “Govt. Engg College” inscription on the iron gates is already half eaten by the oxygen in the atmosphere. It was drizzling then. Appa looked at the sky “Varuna, narayana, thanks for your blessings to madras people.” The fragrance emanated out of the first kiss of rain on earth, enriched the atmosphere. The pollen grains of some unknown flowers suspended themselves in the surrounding air and we felt fresh. The huge trees on both sides of the road hugged each other at the horizon. The tender leaves competing with others for sunlight decorated the outer surface of the trees. We walked, crossing the monkeys and spotted deers. “How nice the campus is!!”, I exclaimed. Appa added, “You will forget everything once you are here”. Some yellow butterflies danced in the air forming high degree polynomial curves. Appa continued, “See those yellow butterflies, I always envy them. They are free and they do what they wish to do. Can we?”. Appa had to break the conversation as the first bell rang.

I found a nice old cement bench under a tamarind tree for me. I looked around. Nature is beautiful indeed. Nature never changes its style. The tamarind leaves always look the same, the sky, the water, nothing changes; yet its beautiful. How is man, who is bored within few months to see the same style of shirt, is never bored to see the same nature throughout his life? Is it because nature doesn’t care what others think and just remain as it wishes? The yellow butterflies came again, now forming different set of curves. Appa just said something; he said that the butterflies are free to decide what they wish to do. Do we have the freedom to do what we want to do? In my case, yes, I think I have the freedom. I can change my job, I can become the head of another company, I can read anything, I can…. , No, all those are the things I can. But what do I want to do? I started thinking.

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by my neighbour, Manickam. He was a bus conductor and my ambition then was to become a bus conductor. A bus conductor decides when and where to stop a bus. He has the whole control of more than 60 people at a time, and so much money under his leather bag; I was fascinated. But I didn’t become a bus conductor, why?. Because,….. because my parents wanted me to study well and take a good job in a reputed firm. So, I mean, I lost my freedom because of my parents? Well, not only that, all my friends went to engineering and how can I become a conductor then?. Does it mean that my friends indirectly decide what I should do? Oh. What about the society. I, son of Dr.Ganesan should not become a bus conductor. God ! The entire society has confiscated my freedom. Leave all that, will my wife vidya accept me if I’m a conductor?. So I’m a slave or a shapeless mass whose freedom is barted with my parents, friends, society, wife and the list goes on... I just couldn’t digest, but its unfortunately true. I’m not free to decide what I should do. The world suddenly appeared different to me.

Leave alone the past. I closed my eyes and thought whether I’m doing what I want to do at least in my present. The instant answer is yes again. I’m researching in a company in my field of interest. I’m happy in what I’m doing. Wait a minute, I ask the next question/ will I jump to another company if it is willing to pay me ten times more. The immediate response is ‘yes’ again. I’m confused; is my primary interest just money? No, I can’t believe it; but yes, I have to accept it. The inference is paining…. But money is important; I have to support my family. I love them. Ah ! This time, my love to my family has cut down the wings of my freedom. I was startled for the first time in my life to learn the bitter truth that I don’t have the freedom to do what I want to. It was too much for me to think. I don’t know how long did I spent there.

Appa appeared with a smile, “hey, were you bored”. He didn’t wait for my reply. He continued, “Do you know what happened today. I was teaching equilibrium. Suddenly Srinivas asked me whether any equilibrium exists in reality. I was surprised at his question. He said that he went through a book about universe and had learnt that universe is constantly expanding and cannot be considered to be in equilibrium. When the whole universe is not is equilibrium, how can anything within the universe be in equilibrium?. Forget the physics behind his question. But see his ability to think and link the universe to his mechanics class”. Appa continued, soon changing to Ramu, then Felix, Priya and he went on.. I could sense no tiredness in the seasoned professor’s body. Instead I sensed an inexplicable joy and energy in him. I think.. I think he is doing what he really wants to do. Yes, that’s the crux, he is not enjoying Srinivas or Ramu’s question, but he is enjoying absolute freedom.

I went home, had a coffee, amma’s filter coffee hadn’t lost its flavour yet. I sat on my laptop and composed an email to Vidya

“Dear Vidya,

We, slaves of relation, job, society, emotions, etc.. have no rights to pluck the freedom of others”.

I’m sure she will make nothing out of it. But I’m clear. I looked around. Appa was reading newspaper. Only his hair-free head was visible. I took the phone, “Hello, M.K.Travels, .. Yes,.. I need one ticket to Losangels”. I could sense appa’s surprise by the compression of aged skin in his fore head. I repeated strongly “Only one ticket to Losangels”.

Mango tree- Short story

Natarajan entered his house when the 8:30 serial in T.V was over and the advertisement for a garment company was going. The colourful products and design were enjoyable even in that old black and white T.V, by lakshmi, ramu, vidya and kamalam amma. The four members were sufficient to fill 75% of the drawing room. Not that the members are too huge, but the drawing room is that small. Ramu rushed to Natarajan, tried to hug him, rested his head against him and shouted “daddy, have you bought me the train toy which I asked you in the market”. There is nothing unusual in the behaviour of ramu as it is quite normal with a six years old kid in any normal family. Lakshmi shouted, “Ramu, wont you keep quiet. Can’t you see your father looking tired? Let him first relax and eat. You disturb him later.” If lakshmi admonishes her only son for his unaberrated behaviour, there can’t be a better reason other than “love for her husband” to fit the situation. Vidya is usually quiet. She is made to speak by Natarajan with his regular question, “vidya, how was the day? What did you do today?” Natarajan is keen that his sister vidya should not be unhappy especially now as she is getting married soon. Mother is the only being who knows only to love you with least or no expectation. Kamalam amma, mother of vidya and natarajan not only loves those two, but loves her daughter-in-law lakshmi also equally. Such small happy family missed one of their senior persons, Mr.Vinayagam, father of natarajan two years back as his heart lost its pumping efficiency. Ultimately his death certificate carried a sentence “death due to ageing”, and doctors after burdening natarajan with five digits in his bill told without expressions, “heart attack”. For natarajan, his wife’s loss of her ten sovereign gold chains mattered nothing in front of his father’s death.

Natarajan is the only earning member of the family. He is brilliant and sincere fellow. One of the mistakes he did in his life was that he scored very good marks in tenth standard. He wanted to become an engineer and as an initial step he joined poly-technique College. He had applied in post-office with his tenth certificate. His high marks won him a clerical post in post-office. Nothing in the world seemed better than a central government job that too at an age of 16. Without any space for second thought everyone was in favour of natarajan joining post-office. Natarajan sometimes thinks that he could have pursued higher studies. The thought was little late by sixteen years after his joining and hence there was no future for his thoughts.

Natarajan is a very lovely man. He usually comes home as soon as his office gets over. By six in the evening he goes for a walk with his son, ramu to the market. The three streets market is the only tourist place in that small village. They usually enter the Khadim Street. The street will be pleasant as most of the families involve themselves in perfume making and incense stick business. Refreshing their nostrils with the fragrance, they cut left and enter Chetty Street, which is dominated, by utensils shop. Copper vessels will be laid in the roads and there will always be an old man polishing some copper vessels. Ramu looks the man with fancy. He thinks that the old man’s method of cleaning those vessels differs from his mother’s method where she uses tamarind and sand to clean vessels of similar kind. The visit to the street formally ends by their gracious presence in ‘murugan tea stall’. It is one of the famous tea stalls over there as it has three benches for its customers. There stands a topless, white bearded old man making samosas, bondas and dhal vadas. Some times he makes banana appam, which is special over there. Ramu enjoys this part of the walk and then parcel some eatables for his mother, granny and aunty too. Mother had told him that this murugan tea stall is very famous that many people come in car just to eat the samosas of the tea stall. Ramu wanted to see someone in car eating it. He has seen some cars occasionally over there but no one eating the samosas of tea stall. He pacified himself that those people might be hiding themselves when they eat. Even granny asks him to hide his eatables when next house anand comes to meet him. The third street of the market is for vegetables and other house hold items. The third street is big and ramu doesn’t visit that often unless his mother takes him deliberately.

Ramu’s evening starts with his playing with his friends in the mango tree in his house’s back-yard. He is never bored with the mango tree. Only natarajan’s arrival from office interrupts ramu and makes him go for a walk with his dad. The mango tree is a magnificent tree with wide spread branches and densely packed green leaves. Even ramu’s grand father didn’t know who planted the tree. In fact no one with ramu in the evening bothered who planted it. Ramu and his friends, satya, rohit, leela, hari and vijay assemble sharply at 4:30 in the evening after their coffee at home even without changing their dress. Each one of them brings some snacks from their home and they climb the lowest branches of the tree. That branch which grew more eastwards was thick and had a comfortable seat for a kid to be seated. And that happened to be the highest point the kids climb. Since ramu is owner of the tree, that high point is reserved for him. There will be high competition for the next positions which is considered better by the kids. Hari was in the next house and he could come soon and occupy the better places of the tree. Hari is very much fond of sweets and others used it as their competitive advantage. Others bribed hari with sweets for getting good positions of the tree. Once settled, each of them exchanges their snacks and starts playing. They climb the tree to some height, pluck some mangoes and eat it with the salt they had brought with. Occasionally when lakshmi comes there, she admonishes them for eating mangoes. Each of them starts talking about their school events later. Since leela was in a girl’s school while others were in the same school she had lot to talk. The topic of the boys varies from who got beatings from head master’s cane to the fun they had in physical education period. Hari showed his palm claiming that he got four beatings from head master for going out of the school campus during class time. The head master is an old man with big mouth, but talks very little. His hands looked short compared to the cane he had which is usually carried by thankaswamy, the great peon of the school.

That day leela was little upset. When asked for the reason, she told that she failed in maths and is afraid of her dad. The boys pitied and discussed in detail the possibilities of her escaping from her dad. Though they found nothing useful, they some how skipped the subject and started playing as usual. This is a good lesson they have learnt without knowing its importance. Yes! The lesson is “the best solution of a problem is to ignore it”. This lesson may be useful for them if anyone of them become a software engineer or a HR manager in the future. Now a days, ramu spent lot of time in the mango tree. At dusk, lakshmi calls him to wash his hands and feet to pray in their tiny pooja room. Natarajan doesn’t come home early like before and so killed the market visit from the schedule of ramu. Ramu hence became more attached to the mango tree. The reason for natarajan’s coming late is because he is a brother of a bride called “vidya”. Two months back, a team of members came in a taxi to see vidya and they confirmed the proposal through Indian post card bearing 25 paise and a tiger symbol in its front side. Everybody was happy with the proposal. The groom is working in a bank as a clerk. He is a graduate. The family was in complete agreement when kamalam amma told that vidya is really lucky for this proposal. Natarajan smiled with pride. It was he who found the guy. Natarajan saw his future brother-in-law reading an English news paper. He used this fact to prove his friends that the groom is in the list of intelligent people of world. Poor natarajan! Had he known the statistics of the circulation of English dailies of the world, he either would have withdrew his statement or would have accepted that the world is dominated by intelligent people. Though natarajan was happy, his face becomes dark when he thinks about the promised gold and dowry for his sister. To make the ends meet he took another part time job as an accountant in the rice-mill nearby. Due to this reason, he comes home late and missed his evening walk with ramu. Both natarajan and ramu missed their evening walk. Since they were left with no option they became accustomed to it very soon.

After supper, natarajan and family came out of the little house and talked for a while under the cool breeze of September outside. The moon looked bright that day and showed natarjan gloomy more clearly. He was tired of two jobs. Ramu was narrating the incidents of the school. He took four mangoes that day and his friends enjoyed it. Ramu was proud to narrate it to his father. Ramu talked later about their games around mango tree. Only then natarajan told that he had decided to sell the tree for vidya’s marriage dowry and next day people will come to cut the tree. Ramu abruptly stopped his tales about mango tree and looked his dad with wonder. For ramu, life without mango tree was not imaginable. He asked his father why they need the tree and started crying. Natarajan couldn’t control ramu and at last succeeded by telling that government had ordered not to have any trees in houses. Trees can only be in the roads and forests. Ramu calmed down as he knew nothing about big words like government. But he was really sad and thought why this government envies their happiness. Ramu thought of several options like hiding the mango tree with all the bed spreads they had and similar other things. He couldn’t convince his dad with his intelligent suggestions. Tired of too much brain work, he fell asleep.

Next morning ramu was not found anywhere in the house. He, usually after brushing comes to his mother and holds her for a cup of coffee. Today he didn’t come. Everyone called ramu’s name and got no answer. At last it was vidya who suggested that he may be near mango tree. When lakshmi hurried there, she not only saw ramu, but his whole mango tree gang in their respective positions. Seeing lakshmi, the kids stopped their discussion as the meeting was convened for a secret discussion. Lakshmi could see all the kids worried. She enquired what happened. They didn’t tell anything. Only hari had the courage to ask “aunty, are you really going to cut our mango tree?” Lakshmi with no expression answered “yes”. Leela started weeping “aunty, we want this tree. If you want to cut some tree I shall show you some tree near our house. They are not as good as this one. And if you are very very particular in cutting this tree for government rule, ask them to cut the upper half. We won’t use that. Spare up to this.” Leela hurried to ramu’s seat in the tree. Lakshmi was called by natarajan for something. Lakshmi while hurrying, dropped a few words, “hey kids, don’t waste your time. Today evening you won’t see this tree”. Her casual words hit the kids to the core. Hari who could bear even a dozen beatings from his headmaster’s cane embraced the tree and started crying. Following leela and hari other friends also started crying.

Now ramu took the senior position, “friends there is no point in crying. If it is a government rule, we can’t do anything. See why we have exams before going to next class. It is a government rule. Can anyone avoid that by crying? So, don’t cry. Let us adjust ourselves. Initially it would be very difficult. We will get used to it soon.” Though ramu preached like his class teacher prema, he couldn’t control his tears when he saw the tree again. The kids kissed the tree ten times. They then brought some eatables and other things like toys, pencil, fruits etc and placed it in front of the mango tree. According to them, it is their thanks giving ceremony towards the retirement of mango tree from their lives. Suddenly satya commented, “Hey don’t you see a face like structure in the centre of the trunk weeping. It is mango tree’s face only.” Everyone agreed that they too see. No one thought how suddenly they could see such face which they didn’t see ever before.

Time waits for none and they had to rush to their schools before first bell. Otherwise they have to kiss their head –master’s cane with their soft palms. Evening came. Ramu hastily came to mango tree. He thought no one will come. But to his surprise all his friends were there around the remains of the tree. It was chopped completely except the roots. There is no huge trunk or branches. The trunk is now shorter than rohit’s study table. The brown bark of the tree is no longer visible. The centre portion of the trunk remained scattered. There is no scent of fresh mangoes; the scent of raw wood was prevalent. The remains were in light cream in colour. The environment was very silent without the rattling of leaves. For the first time ramu and his friends noticed that the back yard is so big and bright. Everyone was silent when leela broke the ice. She told, “When my dad brings mangoes, I shall bury the seed in the same spot and after some years it will become a big tree”. The suggestion was welcomed and hari enthusiastically agreed to water the sapling. The team dispersed soon for other games. Ramu didn’t go out. He just couldn’t digest the loss of mango tree. He thought mango tree would have cried while being chopped. He thought mango tree might have expected some help from ramu. Ramu also felt abashed. He, being the one who utilized the tree to maximum really should have done something to avoid the tragedy happened. Deep in thoughts he felt asleep. As usual after the 8:30 serial, natarajan entered the house. He was happy that day with lot of currencies from the timber shop owner. He asked lakshmi to keep the money in the pooja room for a while. Then he locked the door and counted the money. He was in a cheerful mood because his part-time job rice-mill owner agreed to give the rice for marriage for just 50% of its price along with the gift of 25 kgs raw rice. In this good mood, in fact every one forgot the presence of ramu. Natarajan looked for ramu. He had bought banana appam for ramu. Ramu was tired of feeling for the tree. Natarajan had to spend one complete hour to bring ramu to an agreement. The agreement was that natarajan would buy a mango sapling which will grow big like the original one in just one year so that mango tree will be ready by ramu’s next summer vacation. This made ramu bit comfortable and he became active with new energy. He now felt hungry and started eating banana appam.

Vidya’s marriage took place in a grand manner in a temple nearby. Ramu was given lot of importance by his relatives and he enjoyed the marriage. Ramu became the pet of his new uncle. After the marriage the newly wed couple was sitting in the small drawing room and was preparing to leave. Ramu came to them and shyly gifted them six big ripe mangoes to his uncle and said “this is from my mango tree”. Poor ramu! He didn’t know that after the exchange of white cover which contained ten thousand rupees in the name of dowry; his uncle is the new owner of the mango tree now.

As long as dowry is an unavoidable ceremony in the Indian marriages, lot of ramus have to loose their mango trees!