The best slice of the mango.

There is something strangely mystic about mango trees. Before you completely laugh me off, let me tell you that it is totally a personal feeling. For me, the tree which should be in my backyard should be a mango tree. The tree which should cast a shadow on my balcony should be a mango tree. And after a rain, when I occasionally clean my terrace, the leaves I should sweep out should be of a mango tree. It has nothing to do with the heavenly fruits that grow on them. It has nothing to do with the sweet smell a mango tree in full bloom evokes. Mango trees for me has nothing to do with sweet and shine. It has to do with the shade, the shadows and the feeling of lost love and lovers who ignored me and the lovers I have ignored. It has to do with loss, it has to do with nostalgia, it has to do with Hemingway, it has to do with the alleys that are always dark even in the noon sun, it has to do with all that is there to be taken and yet not taken.

Crash and Burn

There was a tall and fit one. There was another tall and fat one. And then there was a lean mean and obscene one. It was friday and they were coming back home after the school. They were pedalling hard, their bicycles and talking about some exam which they have to come and write on Saturday.The exam was not a compulsory one, yet somehow most of the students are writing it.

There is this small downhill path, then a valley and then an uphill on their way back home. The three of them decide to race without pedalling, balancing their weight forward, in the downhill route. One would think that the tall and fat one would easily be the first, given his weight. But when you are racing without pedalling, in a downhill path, it's the position of the rider that is most important; and also late braking. The latter being very tricky, since the downhill path curves down a bit and the braking has to be perfectly timed or else; well, that's what comes next in the story.

So the lean, mean and obscene one was waiting for the right moment to brake and little did he know that the right moment has already past. It didn't take him much to know that though. Crash and burn is what reminded him swiftly of the mistake.

He fell down the hill, like the stupid Jack and his bike came tumbling behind, like the stupid Jill. What happened next was all hazy. All the lean, mean and obscene one could remember was that he went to the house next to the valley to wash his face. His bike was in need of some serious repair. The three of them started pushing their bikes back home.

The next memory he has is being almost near his home. Whatever pushing shoving talking swearing has all been lost to him. And he tells his friends that 'Hey, I think I have lost my memory temporarily.' To which his friends respond that - 'Dude, you are telling this for the umpteenth time and we hope you get back what you have temporarily lost.'

It's been almost twelve years and he hasn't got back what he had lost temporarily. He still tries to remember (and fails inevitably) what had happened or the scenes in between the crash site and his home.

P.S.:- His friends also say that he recited all their phone-numbers, his registration number for the next day's exam, his date of birth and all kind of stuff in his attempt to prove that he hasn't had a total amnesia. But he denies all of that, still.

Sulphur

How can they do that? How can they destroy an old house to build a newer one, which they think is gonna be better than the old one? How can they be so foolishly ignorant? How can they answer to the pull of nostalgia years later? How can they ever bring down a house only to raise a hoard of bitter sweet memories that is gonna haunt them years down the lane?

Wren and Martin.

Back in the high school our English teacher - Spain (yes that was his name) - was notorious amongst us. Please do not get me wrong here - he was an excellent teacher, his classes were never boring. But he was very strict, in so many things, he wanted us to speak only English, he was too arrogant for the liking of us teenagers. We secretly hated him, we wanted to do everything that could cause uneasiness to him. One of our seniors even vandalised the toilet and wrote vulgar comments about him.
I never used to go back to my school, but after a good 5 years or so I once went back. I met some of my teachers and then when I had already starting back, I saw Spain sir. He was climbing the stairs back to his office, I called out to him and he came hurrying down to meet me. He walked down the whole flight of stairs to see one of the most notorious and obnoxious kids in his class. I was so so moved. You wouldn't believe me if I told you the stuffs I had done to make his like uneasy for him. My father is a professor, even then it took me so long to understand how noble that profession is and how much love a teacher has in his heart for his students.