Life is an illusion

I watched a short film called Manoranjan. The story is about a lady telling elaborate lied to a house guest about how her mother in law is dead and how her husband is unable to accept the fact. Then the boy sees the old lady washing her face in the bathroom and bolts out of the door with his bag.   The story should have been funny. It was funny in a similar story by Saki. But we Indians want to add lot of emotional drama to it. And the film tells us the lady is mentally unbalanced and is on medication. Come on, can't we be just funny? On to Saki - when the only funny person I knew was Jeeves and P.G. Wodehouse. Good old days, good old days. We did not find the politicians of our opposite side very funny - we just ignored all of them. Search for humor books gave me Saki - Victor Hugh Munro. Not a Japanese writer - just his pen name.  But just like Wodehouse, his stories revolve around rich English men and women who have all the time to kill.   OK, downloaded West...

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...