Kill You, Sure (6)

              Kill You, Sure (6)

                                        Nidhu Bhusan Das

                    

                       

                     “He’s amenable,”Divya thinks. She's never before found Anik so morose and melancholic in thought. “It appears he’s beside himself. His unconcerned state points to the possibility that he’s distraught,”Divya tends to think. She’s in the library soon after dinner at 8 p.m.Anik’s never late. Tonight he’s seen nowhere here. “Is it he’s looking for something he hasn’t been interested so long? Is he after someone? Is it some idea or a dream…someone he’s found after a long quest, has found and seen but cannot reach, unable to relate and link?” she’s puzzled, really.” It’s time for her to stand by him. Who knows, it may be the right time to strike a chord with him!” she thinks, though she hates such opportunistic idea. Anxious and impatient, she decides to go downstairs to feel better with a cup of black coffee. As the lift door opens she sees Anik’s materialized.”Hi, nice to meet you,” he greets Divya, uncharacteristically. Divya’s taken aback at the unexpected greeting, but steadies herself and says,” I’m here since 8.You’re late, I’m afraid. Let’s go and have a cup of coffee.” Anik smiles and follows her back into the lift.Divya orders coffee and glides into thought.

                 “The world – external and internal - changes. His greeting is significant. He’s been always a boy in love of study. No, he isn’t a bibliophile. But he can think long and deep. Handsome and thoughtful, such a boy’s coveted by many a girl. He hasn’t been aware of their tenderness, not even mine who’ve been aspiring for his love since the college days. I know he belongs to a conservative family. But Haryana society’s been demonstrating practical wisdom in respect of exogamy and interracial marriage. I don’t think he’s concerned about social inhibitions; what’s his concern’s his academic involvement.This is for the first time he’s said ‘Hi!’ to me. We’ve met many a time but he’s never said’ nice to meet you’. Is he changed, really! I’ve come to develop tenderness towards him the moment I saw him in the queue next to ours for admission in the college. I smiled, he didn’t. I tried to draw his attention many a time, he proved to be withdrawn. Now he appears to have turned interested, more or less…”

“Hello Divya, what’re you thinking?”

She stirs into the reality of his smiling face and tender eyes.”No, nothing.Just feeling good.”

“Feeling good! Why, anything interesting?”

“You’ve greeted me for the first time. Isn’t it interesting enough to let me plunge into wonderful thought?”

“But I always think you’re a nice girl.True, I ain’t articulate.”

“You’re really a unique boy; I cannot but appreciate your distinctiveness. How’s the coffee?”

“It’s like you, exceptional!”He bites his lips for the slip of the tongue.

“Understand,” she says, smiling as she squints.

“Let’s go study now.”

“Possibly we may have another round of the coffee.”

“I understand you’re very particular about study…that’s why I…”

“You’re right. But this is also study – understanding your mind.”

“My mind! Is it worth understanding it?”

“Haryana society goes more and more liberal these days, doesn’t it?”

“That’s right. So what!” She’s beyond her usual sense of humility.

“Interracial love’s possible now, even inter-religious.”

“I see you’re researching the phenomenon. Well, it’s good to explore social psychology and dynamics,” she remarks.

“What’s social’s relative to the individual ones; the two’re complementary, if I ain’t wrong.”

“Whatever be it, I ain’t related to or influenced by it, anyway.”

“That’s why I like you, your independent spirit, and way of thinking.”

                Divya hides her smile, measures the depth of his sincerity. He’s, no doubt, a good friend, thoughtful and respects the independence of others.

“Well Anik, could you tell me when you came to like me?”

“I can’t exactly remember, maybe on the first day.”

“First day means?”

“When you’d a sly look at me from the admission queue at college.”

“But you didn’t let anybody guess it even.”

“What can I do if that anybody isn’t able to read the mind?”

“I didn’t know you’re so naughty. Show off innocence and contemplate on a girl like me,” says Divya, visibly happy and proud.

“Can’t we talk away the night?”

“So that you could read my mind.”

“I’ve already read your mind, girl.”

“Is it? Very dangerous! But I cannot read you.”

“If so, you haven’t tried, possibly.”

“How can I think of? You haven’t shown interest in anything other than study.”

“You’ve been my book and subject of my study.”

“And like a coward you’ve kept it a closely guarded secret,” she banters.

“Now it’s clear to you, I should think.”

“But you’re a prowler, I dare say.”

“Not a tiger, afterall.A boy, following a girl.Is it unnatural?”

“Yes, it is. You haven’t the courage to share your feeling with the girl you like.”

“I must understand first how she’d react.”

“My sly look didn’t convey any message?”

“You’d the sly look but not the observation. You could look on but not notice.”

“I noticed but couldn’t believe. You could hide your feeling; prevent your emotion from being betrayed.”

                They haven’t returned to the reading room, spent the night chatting and dreaming, indulging in mental mapping. Does Anik’s focus have shifted from the green to the black eyes really, and so soon? The summer vacation’s to end in a fortnight. The green eyes will come back. Why’s he in such a haste?(to be continued on 6 August 2015)

Kill You, Sure (5)

              Kill You, Sure (5)

                                           Nidhu Bhusan Das

                         

                    

                  The retreat enhances romance. Anis and Reba, in their late forties, are thrilled. A prelude to making love. They fondle each other. The Italian tiles on the walls reflect the couple exchanging emotions.” We may stay here a week,” suggests Anis.

“No, we should leave tomorrow morning,” says Reba.

“Why, can’t you enjoy the seclusion?” Anis doubts.

“Not that. I really enjoy. But Bithi’s a programme to attend in Dhaka.”

“What programme?”

“Prof.Zafar Iqbal invited her to the birthday party of his wife Yasmeen at his house.”

“Is it?” he asks smiling and enquires,” How has she come to know the professor?”

“Through his science fictions and other novels. She’s an avid reader of his writings.”

“But how did she get to know him personally. He’s a great man, a top scientist and scholar.”

“It’s in Boston itself, last year. He’s on a lecture tour. She met the couple there. They called her Beti (daughter).She’s now their admirer and disciple.”

“Our daughter’s going to be great; they must have found in her the quality.”

“She tells me he’s an award-winning author, a great scientist, but very simple in life and attitude.”

“He’s now a professor of Computer Science & Engineering and also Head of the Department of Electrical & Electronics Engineering at Shahjalal University of Science and Technology. His wife’s currently the Dean of the Life Science Department and Head of the Department of Physics at the university. His elder brother Humayun Ahmed was a writer and filmmaker. It’s a great family.” Anis adds.

“Bithi told he also serves as the Vice-President of Bangladesh Mathematical Olympiad Committee. He played a leading role in founding the Olympiad and popularized mathematics among Bangladeshi youths at local and international level.”

“He’s a luminary in the galaxy of scholars,” Anis remarks as he remembers his days at Harvard.

“Bithi tells he’s lost his father  during the Liberation War.Collaborators of Pakistan Army killed the honest police officer who supported the cause of liberation.”

“I know. It’s alleged a Jamaat leader now undergoing trial at International War  Crimes Tribunal killed his father. Iqbal upholds the values of the Liberation War.”

 “Then we’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Reba whispers,his right ear near her lips.

“We must,or Bithi will lose the company of the great couple and other great people to be present there.”

                   The cell phone of Reba buzzes.She has to unentangle herself from Anis to receive the call from Bithi.

“Hello dear,what’re you up to?”

“Contemplating,mom.”

“Is it? What’re you contemplating,dear?”

“The birthday party.When will we  return to Dhaka,mom?”

“Tomorrow morning.Will have lunch at home.”

“So nice,exciting.”

“Have you thought of the gift?”

“Not yet. We may discuss it on the way back.”

“That’s right. But think. It must be a sterling gift,a memorablia,I should say. Your papa wants something like this.”

“Papa’s so good, you’re so nice,mom.I’ll never be able to leave you,I feel,”Bithi’s emotional.

             All the three are mulling over the gift.Reba ponders on the efforts of the magi to decide on the gifts they carried to the baby christ at Bethelhem.The issue gets settled at the dinner table.After thorough discussion it’s  been decided  a heart shaped bouquet,a chocolate cake of the same shape and a laminated life-size photo of the professor couple will be the gifts. Bithi dances to the great idea.The night glides by in dreams for Bithi who’s so excited about the birthday party tomorrow.

”Sir and Ma’am call and I’m running to be in their warm embrace.They’re beckoning,and I’m riding a white horse which gallops to take me to them as soon as possible,”Bithi dreams.

“I’m on wings,and my feather-weight body’s being carried to the  flying couple waiting for a mid-air  embrace with their loving daughter,” she continues to imagine.

“Yes,they call me little Beti ,they’re,as it were,my foster parents,” smiles Bithi as she thinks of the gathering of the intellectuals where great thoughts will be exchanged.She likes thinking great and listening to great thinkers,be it live or between the pages of books.

             Bithi arrives at the Beily Road bungalow of the couple just before sundown.She’s there with the couple to receive the guests.They’ll begin to pour in by 8 p.m. She wears vernal dress for the occasion because birth,to her, is synonymous with the spring.So,on arrival, she wishes,”May you see many many springs,ma’am.” She could well replace ‘springs’ with ‘summers’, but won’t.Birth and birthday’s a great event,every birth and birthday signifies the spring to her.The gifts Bithi’s brought charms the couple. They’ve kissed and blessed her profusely.The photo’s kept at the reception hall on a large table where bouquets are to find place.The guests have started to trickle in.Bithi’s with the professor couple to receive them.The smart girl endowed with an intellectual aura and a Picasso face attracts the attention of the affable guests.Her tranquil green eyes contribute to the serenity of the celebration which reaches it’s high point with the usual wish:”Happy birthday to you!”.Her American accent  gives it an unusual tonal quality.( continued on 30^th July 2015)

Kill You, Sure (4)

              Kill You, Sure (4)

                                        Nidhu Bhusan Das

                Friday. The day for Jumma Prayer at every mosque across Bangladesh. They’re in the farmhouse in Rupganj on the bank of Sitalaksha, not far from Dhaka city. It’s a 150-acre farm with agriculture, horticulture, dairy and fishery. The mango grove has a rich yield of a variety of mangoes, ripe and ripening. The leechi trees are bowed under the weight of the delicious red fruits.Bithi skips in joy of being in the orchard section of the farm. The fruits are lovely and enchanting. They’re a feast to the eye. Mom and papa are near her.

“You’re real creators,” she yelled to them in appreciation of the beauty and richness of the farm they laid out.

“It’s all for you, dear,” they say in unison.

“No, say it’s for all of us,” she says unabashed.

The call for prayer, Aajan, is heard in the air, and they appreciate the creator of the universe.

“Papa, how do you feel like when alone?” she asks with a wry smile as she peeks at her mother.

“It’s an experience, dear,” he replies solemnly.

“But mom cannot tolerate being alone, can you, dear?” she asks.

“I ain’t lonely, your papa’s killed my loneliness,” Reba says smiling.

“Killed! How, mom?” Bithi’s curious.

“I’m with him, you see,” she says suggestively.

“Then kill means being with someone like papa?”

“Do you think so? Well you must choose the man with care and sound judgement, you know.”

“We’re with the mangoes now. Does it mean we kill the fruits?”

“We love the king of fruits, so we’re with them.”

“But we pluck and eat them too?”

“That’s also killing. But there’s a difference.”

“What’s that, mom?”

“Do you know what Jesus said of his wounds following crucifixion?”

“Maybe, he said it’s cruel.”

“No, not that. He said these are wounds of love.”

“But how could papa kill you, was it unilateral or mutual?”

“What do you think?” Reba asks blushing.

“I think mutual.”

“Yes, it’s reciprocal.”

“You’re so naughty, transferred your love of study to…”

“People have to be naughty sometimes to be in joy or respond to the inner urge and to perpetuate.”

“Would you call it wisdom?”

“See, you couldn’t have these mangoes had there been no pollination, could you, dear?”

“And sure I wouldn’t be there without you and papa being together.”

“So here lies the wisdom of our little mom.”

“But I’ve no such urge, you know.”

“You cannot say. It may be felt any time, now or later.”

“What if I don’t feel?”

“It’s natural, one cannot avoid feeling this.”

“Is it?

“If you aren’t a saint.”

“If I’m devoted to learning and pursuit of knowledge.”

“Research and all about that?”

“That’s what I think I’d do.”

“Nothing is divorced from life, dear. We cannot deny the demands of life.”

               Bithi finds the talk turns heavy, laden-with-philosophy. The mangoes are light, the sky hovering over is lighter and the clouds are more entertaining, so are the birds, flying and chirping. She rises and skips towards the mango grove to drink the beauty of the hanging fruits, listen to the rustle of the leaves and song of the birds, hear the silent murmur of the trees singing lullaby to their children, the mangoes they have born and nurtured so fondly to lose to the consumers like her. A feeling of sadness and guilt overwhelms her when she feels the hidden pangs of her grandparents after her mother left them to live with her papa, which her mom says is natural as it’s the result of her response to the call of nature.” The mango trees have the same pangs and chasm when they lose their children one by one. The difference is they forget and forgive to bear children again while the grandparents have been living alone without having another child, possibly, fearing that they would have to lose again which could double their pangs.

          The empathetic feeling of Bithi for her grandparents continues to haunt her even after lunch when she’s on her bed. The coo-coo of the pair of dove making love on the bough of a mango tree and the chirp of the grasshoppers through the hedges enhance and intensify her empathy. She can see the happy dove-couple and feels for their parents who might have been lonely in their silent nest in the cool of the deep green leaves. It’s overtaken the warmth of her parents for her in the beautiful potted Nature.

“Why do they love me so much?” she thinks.

“Is it because they lost my elder brother when he’s only three?”

“I’m told small pox claimed his life.”

“Here’s the picture of the toddler, so cute, so charming with his smiling face.”

“They cannot forget the boy. They carry his picture everywhere they go and keep one everywhere they reside.”

“How’d they afford to live when I’m away to have a family of my own? I cannot think, really.”

“Yes, this is the real killing, killing of the original love that exists and grows between the child and the parents.”

“I cannot let it happen. It’s better to be wedded to knowledge than to a person,” she decides.

“But what the mango trees whisper?”

“They say they don’t mind their children being plucked.”

“You’re so cruel!”

“Not cruel. If not plucked, they would fall and rot. We must unburden ourselves to bear children again, the next summer.”

“Right! The family tree extends and expands to such an extent that the record exhausts at one point. We at best count up to great great parents.”

“So procreation through coupling is the accepted process, and taken to be natural,” she tries to understand.( continued on 23 July 2015)

Kill You, Sure (3)

              Kill You, Sure (3)

                                        Nidhu Bhusan Das

               After dinner, Anik’s in the library. At JNU the library functions round the clock. He isn’t alone there. Many other students are engrossed in study. But he doesn’t have the mind in the book. It hovers over Dhaka where she is now. He doesn’t know much about her and her parents. The book he’s before him deals with the history of the evolution of the society in Bangladesh. The reason’s obvious. He cannot explain to himself the logic behind the reason. Subjective choice cannot contain objective logic.” I’m afraid I’ve become subjective, but what else could I be? She’s simply so enchanting,” he thought.”No, the physical beauty isn’t the reason. She’s a personality. Not a michelangelo, but an adorable personality. Time glides, doesn’t keep the usual pace. Don’t know when the vacation will end. I see her, does she see me? God knows!”Anik’s uncertain. It’s natural. He’s addressed the air in the space that has separated them. She hasn’t interacted, anyway. Yet the pride of Jat patriarchy isn’t hurt. True, he doesn’t share the traditional Jat pride of this kind. But anyone can feel hurt when ignored. Not Anik, in this case.

 “True, she doesn’t betray any emotion other than the pursuit of knowledge. She prefers to be lonely in the company of books. This is a rare quality which makes her personality unique. She’s an elusive dream for me,” the emphasis is on ‘elusive’ as he thinks.

 “Her eyes’re green.”

 Sure, the colour of the eyes has made him get lost in them. “Green-eyed people have an incredible zeal and zest for life and for living life to the fullest,” he believes the idea’s perfect.

 “They are passionate about many things.”

 “They tend to be very attractive and beautiful,” he’s sure.

“Her brown hair points to her independence and self-reliance, competence and stability,” he tends to be analytic like a psychologist with his head propped with two elbows and cupped between hands.

“She’s a heart face. It’s characterized by a wide forehead which is widest at the temples and hairline.”

“She’s prominent cheekbones,” he observes like an anatomist.

“Her thin lips reflect a personality endowed with strong mental acuity.”

 “A girl with such a face could be ambitious realistically, quirky but shy. Her thin lower lip suggests she’s reserved and the thin upper lip means she’s secretive,” he analyzes, as it were he’s a biological anthropologist.

“What are you upto?” asks Divya, his chum since college days in Haryana.

The question punctuates the thought of Anik.He’s been so absorbed he’s been unaware of the presence of others in the reading room. Looking up, he faces Divya Lal who belongs to a farming family, and is an excellent student. She’s doing her masters in Linguistics.Anik perceives she adores him. He likes it but never have they gone beyond academic matters.

“You’re dozing, perhaps. Let’s go and have tea,” she suggests.

Anik cannot resist the temptation. He follows Divya.

Sipping the tea she says, enquiringly,”I wish you weren’t morose!”

“No, no…just thinking,” he defends.

“Okay dear! Then what’re you thinking about,” she’s eager.

“Maybe, I don’t know, exactly.”

“Any new hypothesis, say on impact of new media on social relations?”

“I don’t think so. Know anyone with green eyes?”

“Green eyes! I’ve heard some Irish people have green eyes.”

“I’m occupied with green eyes, you know.”

“Interesting, really! You may read a book on Irish people for that. I’ve seen a book in the catalogue of the library.”

“Thanks for the suggestion.”

“Recently I’ve read a novel that deals with Irish society, their love-life.”

“The heroine green-eyed!”

“That I cannot remember, exactly.But she’s very nice, has fidelity.”

“Won’t you tell the story, please?”

“Well, in a nutshell, she’s Holly, a very young widow. Her husband died a year back. Gerry and Holly, sweethearts since childhood, married in love. She doesn’t respond to many amorous advances. None can replace Gerry in her life, she thinks.”

“She’s like an Indian widow.”

“But there’s a difference, very important.”

“What’s that?”

“She could have married, quite a number were there to pick and choose. No inhibition and prohibition there for widow remarriage. Her family wouldn’t mind. Even Gerry in one of his notes addressed to Holly to be received after his death tells her to remarry. She refrains on her own.Self-regulation, you may say,” Divya explained.

“A strong personality!”

“Moral strength, a rare quality. This is her choice, not imposition as it’s in our society, despite the reform efforts of Vidyasagar and Ram Mohan in the 19th century and enactments.

“Modern Indian girls don’t tend to go by such social tenets, I believe,” said Anik, doubtful.

“Why should they? They’ve the choice to make like Holly. Law’s there on their side,” Divya asserted.

             They’ve three cups of tea each. Divya rises to go back to the reading room. She doesn’t show she’s stirred at the interest Anik’s shown in green eyes.Anik follows her.

“Why is Anik scared about green eyes?” she continues to think even when her eyes’re on the page of the book. She’s an avid reader, but now she cannot proceed.Anik’s brooding on green eyes intrigues her:” Has he developed tenderness by now, that too to someone with green eyes?” She saw Bithi in the reading room, but it’s casual look. She doesn’t care for beauty as she knows in her heart she herself is beautiful. “Still why, Anik!” she is puzzled.( continued on 16 July 2015)

Kill You, Sure (2)

            Kill You, Sure (2)

                                         Nidhu Bhusan Das

      

             Anis Chaudhury met Reba Kennedy at Harvard. He studied at Kennedy School of Harvard Master of Public Policy (MPP) and concentrated in International & Global Affairs (IGA). Reba’s in the PhD programme in Social Anthropology. When she’s born at Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge, Massachusetts the pediatrician and the obstetrician said, the baby’s royal, elegant, beautiful and awesome. So, they chose the acronym Reba for her name. Besides, Reba’s mother Salma Aga might have in mind the name of the river Reba, the other name of the 1300 km long Narmada which rises near the Amarkantak peak of Mahakal range in Madhya Pradesh-Chhattisgarh and flows between Vindhyan and Satpura ranges in a narrow rift valley. It meets the Gulf of Khambat near Bharuch (Broach). This river forms no delta.

          Salma’s from Sindh in Pakistan where they’re known as Mohajir, migrants from India after partition. George Kennedy’s from Ireland. They met at a Broadway Opera and came to love each other. The happy couple prospered in their grocery business and offered their only child the best possible education. The family doesn’t have any religious inhibitions and Reba grew up in an egalitarian and secular family atmosphere. Anis Chaudhury’s from Barisal where their family’s well-known as a cradle of liberal ideas and for philanthropy. They decided to come into wedlock with the consent of the Kennedy family. It’s decided Reba would retain her US citizenship and Anis would be a US citizen. They would practise the religion of humanism.Anis’s a visiting faculty at Harvard, and Reba runs a thinktank.Also they’ve established Dhaka Study Circle, a deemed university. It’s a research institute with special emphasis on South Asia. They stay in Dhaka five months a year.Bithi’s also a US citizen but likes the Bengali culture. She’s devoted to cross-cultural study and her area of interest also covers the folk ways of Ireland. She’s the mind to pursue doctoral study at Harvard.

         Bithi’s abed after lunch. The word “Kill” continues to haunt her mind   and stir the thought. Well, she’s an idea:” Why not search in the internet,” she decides and is now online on her laptop. Wikipedia says,” As a body of water, a Kill is a creek.  The word comes from the Middle Dutch ‘kille’, meaning "riverbed" or "water channel".The term is used in areas of Dutch influence in the Delaware and Hudson Valleys and other areas of the former New Netherland colony of Dutch America to describe a strait, river, or arm of the sea. Examples are Kill Van Kull and Arthur Kill , both separating Staten Island, New York from New Jersey , Dutch Kills and English Kills off Newtown Creek, Bronx Kill  between the Bronx and Randalls Island , and used as a composite name, Wallkill River  in New York and New Jersey and the Schuylkill River in Pennsylvania. Fresh Kills is the primary waterway that leads to the former Fresh Kills landfills which serviced the city of New York in the second half of the 20th Century and was once the largest landfill in the world.”

“Kill” began to be used to mean ‘a stroke, a blow’ in early 13^th century. Since 1814 it’s being used as a verb. In Boxing Jargon ‘The Kill’ is being used to mean ‘the knockout’ since 1950. But Anik doesn’t use the word in any of the senses, she understands.

“He smiles when he says - kill you, sure. Why the smile?” she’s perplexed.

“Is he a cool murderer? They say there’re killers who can kill, smiling.”

“But how can a studious and polite boy be like that?”

“I’m not his friend or friend-turned-enemy, right?”

“We say – Don’t kill time. Here it means waste time.”

“How will he waste me? Does he mean he’ll beat me academically?”

“May be. Well, let me see.”

             Back at JNU hostel, Anik knows what he means. He’s already infatuated to Bithi.Her look, her gait, the way she speaks, her aristocratic behaviour, and the sum total of these – her unique personality has stolen his heart. He hasn’t thought of her country, religion and language. He’s developed tenderness to her – the person and the personality per se.He hasn’t analyzed what constitutes the essence of her personality, he isn’t interested either. He feels a kind of loss in the absence of Bithi in the campus. Why should he? It isn’t long enough that he has come to see the girl like many others in the university.” Three months isn’t enough for understanding classmates, is it?” he thought. “Yet I feel I’m alone even when there are many around. Don’t know why,” a voice within murmurs.

             She’s again on her back in the bed with the head on a downy pillow.” I’m there to study, not to compete. So, no question of being beaten by anybody. Then how can one kill me? Not possible. I shouldn’t be scared. I’m there to learn, not to take fancy. If I learn, I’ll have an edge over others. “Kill you” is nonsense, absolutely,”Bithi concludes. Drowsiness grips her, the eyelids fall. She dreams of the Irish meadows and mango groves of Bangladesh. Mango is her favourite summer fruit. She sees the meadows adorned with lush green grass and beautiful flowers after the snow has melted away. The ripe mangoes, red and yellow, hanging from the trees in their small orchard invite her to pick them up.

           Before sundown, Anis Chaudhury goes into the room of the daughter and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. When you’re in dream, even the fall of a petal may induce you to open your eyes.”Papa, you’re again so naughty, I was dreaming, you know,” says Bithi like a child, lengthening her syllables.

“Dreaming of what, dear?”

“Meadows and mangoes.”

“Oh! That’s it. Very nice.”

“Not child, your mom, understand?”

“Well, let’s go into the cool of the garden to have tea. Your mom waits there.”

“That’s fine, after a long time,” says she, delighted and jumped off the bed to run out into the sylvan garden.

          The tea‘s ready and they begin to sip together the Darjeeling with delicacies prepared by Rabeya. Halfway through, she rises and goes to a mango tree. She hugs the tree and asks,” Won’t mind if I kill the tree sure, will you, papa?”

“Not at all, because I know you love it so much,” says the papa, affectionately.

“You’re right, my wise papa.”

“Finish the tea,” calls her mom.

        Bithi’s gone into a kind of reverie over the link the papa’s drawn between ‘kill and love’.(   continued on 9 July 2015)