Rose by any other name is ....

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ಸೇಲ್

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ತಾಯಿ ದೇವರೆಂದು

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Aam baat

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I was trying to pluck a mango. Not from neighbor's house. Nor from someone's house on the way. The mango had grown in our own garden. Because my husband worked hard and built a beautiful house. Planted two mango trees. Religiously watered them. Fanatically protected them.   Now the trees are 20 feet tall almost and have blossomed into hundreds and hundreds of sweet wonders.  Which made me busy this year. Since the last 3 months, I have been screeching, roaring, shouting at little kids who love the taste of raw, sour mangoes, which are luring them while they innocently were walking like little angels. No, no, I still could not reach the decibels of news anchors of our nation. But almost there. See, I would sit by the window, which was kept open for the sole purpose of keeping an eye on little thieves. The moment I see the leaves of the tree shake a little bit, I run to the window, strengthening my vocal cords. "Yaarada" (Who is there). Children run away. With the stick...
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