A Letter of Romance

 

 

Dearest Darling,

It has been a tough week without you! I have so wanted to run and gather you in my arms that both my heart and stomach hurts. The golden-brown crispiness that you personify is like the sirens of the Greek mythology, I cannot but drift and be embroiled in your coils.

The soft opening and closing of the doors, the surreptitious glances and the tenterhooks of deep desire, the ecstatic joy and the final fulfilment. I really miss them.

How long can I keep up this yearning under wraps? How much longer need I catfoot around the obvious? How may I skirt the main issue of being faithful?

I know you are there waiting for me. All I need to do is unveil the truth of my heart. But I am a coward in both aspects of my double life. “To be or not to be” is the question, that hammers in my skull exactly at eleven a.m. and four p.m.

I need you. I am desperate. I will give myself a couple of days more then it has to be either here or there.

Will I give you up or continue to be in a clandestine relationship is what the next forty-eight hours will unveil to my psyche. I will be brave enough to take the bull by the horns and follow my destiny. Only You can help me ….

Yours forever

Whatever Happens.

 
I have written similar letters in my mind many times. Have I ever sent them anywhere? No I haven’t! Not because I am a prude (as my family calls me!) but the recipient is uneducated, illiterate and has no brains whatsoever. How would the receiver then understand the poignancy of the yearning and desire that besets me?

It’s not that you’re grand or glamorous. You’re small, quick, secretive, a crust here, a lick there, a bite of cheese while “just checking” if it’s still good. You thrive in the shadows between real meals, and somehow you convince me you’re invisible. “We don’t count,” you whisper, like a guilty crush. And I believe you.

When I’m waiting for the microwave to ding, you’re there. When I’m staring blankly into the fridge, hoping for answers to life’s problems, you’re there. You’re my little stolen moments, my snack confessions, my delicious denials. You’re not an indulgence, you’re research.

By now you would have guessed the ‘lover’ in my hidden life.

Oh, Half a Cookie, you’re so selfless. You break in two just so I can convince myself I’ve only eaten “part” of you. Sweet Broken Chips at the bottom of the bag, you don’t count because you’re “basically seasoning”

You’ve been my co-conspirator, my secret ally, my tiny rebellions against portion control. I know the scale knows about you. I know my jeans know about you. But still, when the clock hits 11 a.m. and I’m standing in front of the snack cupboard like it’s an oracle, you’re there — a crumb, a bite, a spoonful of comfort.

Will I then be able to fight the inevitable and squash this desire into shapeless crumbs? The forty-eight hours will soon pass and as I stand against the tide, the sea salt in my crisp will awash my determination and the sands beneath my feet will give way to your dominant personality and I shall be Scarlette to your Rhett. All my resilience and strength will be “Gone with the wind”.

So here’s to you, my invisible indulgence. We both know you count. We just won’t say it out loud. “And so, until tomorrow, my beloved crumbs, I remain yours — secretly but irrevocably.”

 

A new battle!

 

Those who follow my blogs will know that one of my bete noires is the Pigeon! I will not go into the distant history of my various battles which began when I was a teenager but has begun in the last four years.

In our new apartment, we have sizable balcony (I believe they call it ‘the deck’ nowadays). A lover of plants, I have filled the perimeter with potted plants. In the monsoon they grow so well that it looks as if you are sitting in a mini forest. Not satisfied with this I have added lights and fountains and small Knick knacks which according to me enhances the whole atmosphere.

We spend our mornings and evenings and sometimes late night in this august space. We live on the thirty sixth floor which faces cloud and mist clad mountains so you can understand our obsession. In fact the children have named it “The Rapunzel Tower”. If I can help it, I do not leave it for days on end. I am self-sufficient! (though my hair is neither as beautiful or long or strong as Rapunzel!)

So the snake in my ‘Garden of Eden’ (I know I am mixing metaphors!) is the Pigeon. When we first moved in, we left our French windows wide open. The pigeons took this as an invitation to move in but lacked the IQ to figure out how to leave. Cue pandemonium: fluttering wings, frantic cooing, me switching off ceiling fans in terror of accidental pigeon homicide.

After multiple concussions (theirs, not mine), I was reduced to calling the guards to remove stunned intruders while they laughed at my cowardice. Eventually, I thought the Pigeon News Press (PNP) had published a warning about our flat being a trap, because the invasions ceased.

I exhaled too soon.

We had been gifted a lovely, large, faux stone, waterfall which was a little too large for the main living room so with my brilliant mind I put it on ‘the deck’. The rains had stopped and the sun was now burning down shamelessly, the little stream that passed by our apartment was becoming dry.

Then started the “Return of the grey force” … they came in twos, sat on the balcony rail strutted around, did a lot of cooing and fluttering. I ignored them, they were after all outside, I reasoned to myself. So I let my guard slip and the next moment one of them hopped on to the back of the sofa I had been sitting on and then another step on to the waterfall bowl and drinking away to glory. He was followed by his partner and there ensued a battle royale and my lovely clean space was filled with poop and feathers!

Thus began third world war and has lasted for the last three years and I have a feeling it will be called ‘the hundred years war’ (If I survive that is!)

First, we moved the waterfall to another location, did not work. Then we placed the head of a pharaoh with head gear and snake on the top most bowl, it did work for a couple of days but one of the young fearless ones flew and toppled it! End of episode two. Then we camouflaged it with real live plants, did not work. Draped it with artificial leaves, did not work. Put lights over it, did not work.

The only deterrent was to put off the waterfall during the day, but then that was not conducive to peace and harmony, so back to shooing and making noise whenever they dared to cross ‘The Laxman Rekha.’

We of course were given a lot of advice- “put those pokey things around the waterfall,” “keep a recording of loud noise”, “put a scarecrow figure”- believe me we tried everything. I remember scouring Amazon for anti-pigeon machines and even tried some sonic repellent. Then the ultimate advise “just take it off from the balcony, all your problems are solved.”

But this is like throwing down my arms and waving the white flag of surrender! Could I be so cowardly as that? How dare these birds even dream of defeating me? So I vowed to continue my war. There is ‘win some lose some battles’ but I will let these birds drink the dirty water from my waterfall over my dead body! It is now a ‘do or die’ and a continual MOP (Military Operational Plan) is being created second by second.

The last ammunition is a string of flashing lights fitted onto a revolving wall mounted side fan falling over the waterfall continuously and has lasted for four days!

There are of course the couple who come over to do a recon once in a while but no bird has come into my arena! God willing this battle is mine!

Minimalistic aspirations!

I have shifted homes more than a dozen times during my very long tenure on planet Earth. Of course I have no recollection of my earlier lives or my existence on other planets. Anyway half of the shifting I did before I got married and the other half continues to this day.

When I was a child and we moved. There were no ‘Movers n Packers’ so my father and I packed up each of our possessions (My mother stuck to her personal belongings and kitchen, and my sister was somehow not there when we were moving!). The possessions I recall, included the tube lights and bulbs, air conditioners and air coolers, books and magazines, showpieces and photographs, in short everything. I was in charge of the packing of small things (Not Furniture) and it was my responsibility to see that each packed item (we used old newspapers, towels and dresses and saris to be thrown) was carefully fitted into the wooden crates lined with hay and straw. It would be inspected by Dad and then nailed shut.

My mother was a hoarder. She loved buying stuff that were new in the market and then used maybe once and stored (Ovens, juicers, grills, barbecues, biryani makers, rice cookers, induction heaters et al) during each of these shifting there was the eternal arguments of what should be kept and what should be thrown. Every time my mother agreed that somethings needed to be left out but when we unpacked in the new place they would all be there!

When I started my adult life I did the other half of my moving. We did have packers by then so neither I nor the rest of my family needed to pack anything but we did need to sort things out. I too, like my mother, am a hoarder but not exactly like her. I began by hoarding used gift-wrapping papers (sometimes I did use them), I also kept shoe boxes (to store some unwanted things u know!), then there were magazines, letters, visiting cards (of plumbers and electricians!) and before the arrival of the cell phone I hoarded telephone books with their numerous cuts and numbers! Pens which did not work, pencils which were blunt, paints which were almost dry and I am sure you can add a lot of things that you do and I might respond with “I did that too”.

But this was the time when I did weed out my wardrobe. I did this so that I could, without guilt, refurbish it in the new place. This did not include the heavy saris which were my wedding trousseau, they were well packed (having never been opened after they came from dry cleaning after they were worn once!) so it was not a great deal of trouble. I of course used my judgement to weed out the kid’s wardrobe. I failed in this aspect of my ‘lord n master’ wardrobe as he had his own ideas about what should be thrown off!

When we last shifted to the current abode, I had been ruthless in throwing away clothes, papers, books, utensils and even things like ribbons and artificial jewellery. At first settling down in the new house was heavenly. Every storage space was meticulously planned out and only things that had any usefulness in them were kept and I even made a kind of excel sheet to catalogue my belongings (though it tapered off after sometime!)

Then one by one the crisis happened. We needed old towels for random cleaning and so were the requirements of old bedsheets. The tool box filled with feviquick had been unfortunately thrown off. Those extra wood planks had been inadvertently left behind! Those mismatched tea cups had been thrown off (so useful when you have the whole house filled with painters and electricians and plumbers needing cups of tea at regular intervals!). The old paint brushes though too hard to paint were great for cleaning the sliding window channels. The list is endless….

So started my various Amazon deliveries to fill in the holes of unnecessary items. My ‘minimalistic’ ideas went out of the window.

Now after four years I have come a full circle and every other day is filled with “to keep or not to” as I wade into cupboard after cupboard listing, cutting, throwing and rehashing stereotypes.

I look longingly at new dinner sets, cooking sets, furniture, curtains and thingamabobs, for I cannot buy a new one if I have four sets languishing for use in the unlabelled cupboards.

Now I need to get away from the house into someplace there is nothing to buy, every once in a while. Do you think this malady is curable after all it is a genetic disability and it is NOT MY FAULT!

 

Balcony reflections!

 

                                                                                                                                                     

“Woof, woof!” followed by short growls and enhanced by loud barks…

I had just made my cup of tea. It was six o’clock in the evening as I strolled out onto the balcony. It was a lovely sunny yet chilly day in Birmingham. It really was a pleasure looking at the greenery and the quiet canal that passed by my daughter’s apartment where I was spending a couple of weeks.

The Condominium was normally a very quiet place during the day and even the evenings were occasionally spotted with short bursts of conversation that punctuated the stillness of the starry skies.

So, this extremely raucous sound made me nosey and find out what was happening. What I saw was hilarious! Two brown Pomeranian were having the time of their lives! They rolled on the lawn, on top of each other, bit each other, barked, growled, and went round and round like a pair of tornadoes!

While they indulged themselves in this game play they tangled up their leads held by their owners. The laughter and happiness that ensued from the untangling was filled with joy and I smiled involuntarily.

Before I go any further in my musings let me tell you that I am not a dog lover. I don’t mind them, but I would not like to spend my life or time with them. In fact, the brat of the family (who loves them by the way) has been after us to keep a dog at home to fill in the empty nest but till date I have stood firm.

In England , I have noticed that most families have some kind of pet, could be a dog, a cat, or a feathered friend. In fact, I realize that most young people even in India are going into this form of indulgence (and the not so young too!) but as I have mentioned earlier I have no feelings on this relationship status!

So, to continue with my narrative the two owners (I shall call them dog fathers) both looked as if they were in their early thirties were chatting and enjoying the dramatics as the two dogs went in and out and tangled them as well as themselves. In fact, I wondered how they did not fall! I was now watching their antics unashamedly.

After about half an hour of this the group was joined by the doggy mummies. Both of them paid no attention to the drama but stood around talking to each other while the daddies did the untangling and poop cleaning. The sun was still high in the sky (It being British summer time) and after sometime they dispersed.

Years ago, when my children were very young. We mothers used to take them to the park to play. While the children played, we gossiped and spent the time of the day without paying attention to what mischief the children were up to. The fathers were busy at work, so they were not around.

But the equation is the same now. Now in the days of 'Work from home' the fathers are also around, and mothers too work from home. Even with all the gender equality being forced down our throats I still see the strict demarcation of chores based on genders. Not surprising that the ‘mummies’ want a break and do not take interest in the dogs while the ‘daddies’ have to shoulder the responsibilities of the ‘children’ in the outside world.

As I grow older, I see a serious shift in social norms. Couples prefer to have dogs rather than children. I suppose it is understandable. They give unconditional love, eat whatever they are given, do not have to go to school, there is no teenage angst and million other advantages.

There is no right or wrong in this trend, but it is a serious movement towards not wanting to be responsible (I am not stating that it is irresponsible) for another human life. What will this ultimately lead to?

I believe that most Japanese power couple take a conscious decision not to have children and have been doing so for more than a decade. The result of this is the average age of Japan is about 46 years, this in twenty years will lead to a population which will have very few young people to continue the world. Is this what we are looking at worldwide?

Is this where education is leading us? To a world full of autumnal people? Is there still time to rectify our errors? Why cannot the young people be parents both to their own children and the dogs? Is life all about having the “time of our lives”?

I believe that we are at the crossroads of evolution. Whether we walk through the unknown “deep dark woods” or “the golden utopia” is a major topic for discussion. I understand that it is good to have pets but to let them be replacement for children is a mistake which we will never understand now but will be apparent in thirty years .

I’m not condemning anyone. Pets bring solace, companionship and structure to lives lived in small apartments and busy cities. But as I sat on that balcony, watching two pampered Pomeranians whirl beneath me, I wondered whether we’re trading playgrounds for dog parks, children for pets and what that choice will mean thirty years from now.

Perhaps our balconies will always overlook green spaces. The question is who will be running across them: our grandchildren, or our dogs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiko Orbituary

 

In Loving Memory of Haiko Supermarket

Powai, Mumbai

It all began in 2014, when our family moved from Bandra to Powai. With the last child having flown the nest, there were no more school schedules to anchor us, and Powai with its cleaner air, more space, and promise of quieter living seemed like the right next chapter. Still, I missed Bandra deeply. The street shopping, my trusted beauty parlour, and the familiar chaos were hard to leave behind.

Then I stumbled upon Haiko. 

Tucked away in Powai’s Hiranandani Gardens, Haiko wasn't flashy. Compared to the Big Bazaars and D’Mart of the world, it almost seemed unassuming. But slowly, steadily, it won me over. With its cleanly packed vegetables, hard-to-find international snacks, elegant cosmetic section, and fresh inventory, it became not just a supermarket, but a space of comfort, familiarity, and joy.

What began as a once-a-month trip turned into weekly pilgrimages. Sometimes, I’d make up shopping lists or pretend I’d forgotten an item just for another visit. My favourite time was late morning on weekdays; the aisles were quiet, the produce was being freshly stocked, and the sample counters generously offered little bites of discovery. I relished talking to the staff, who came to recognize my face and my preferences. Haiko was never just about groceries, it was about the experience.

Family debates about its prices compared to D’Mart were frequent (D’ Mart was closer to our house!). But I stood my ground, Haiko was about quality, not quantity. It became one of my most cherished routines throughout our years in Powai.

Even after we moved again, seeking more greenery, fewer crowds, and a slower pace, I was bribed through monthly visits to Powai. I’d return to my beautician, to Eden, and always, always, to Haiko. It remained my constant. A link to a chapter of life that I wasn’t quite ready to conclude.

Until, one day, it closed.

On a casual visit, with no shopping list or plan, I stood dazed in front of shuttered glass doors. Redevelopment, they said. It felt surreal. The place that had once echoed with the rustle of shopping bags and polite greetings had gone silent. The rest of the day passed in a haze of disbelief.

I know change is inevitable. I’ve embraced many shifts in life with quiet resilience, moving homes and cities with the grace of an urban gypsy. But this loss felt personal. Haiko had become a part of my identity.

Rest in peace, dear Haiko. You were more than just a supermarket. You were a sanctuary. May you be reborn somewhere near, so I can once again lose myself in your aisles.

 

 

Emergency Experience

 

 

“Doctor, I have left the cannula on his hands even though we were discharged yesterday,” said a very aggressive voice.

“Hmm”

“Actually both of us have spent more than a week in your hospital and we were discharged yesterday and our doctor told us that he has to get two antibiotic injection via IV today that is why I left the cannula. That will I hope reduce the cost?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” a very polite voice seemed to agree.

“Our doctor also told us that the only cost that we have to bear, is the drip set cost, no other charges will be expected of us,” the aggressive voice said in clipped tones.

“Sir I would request you to talk with reception regarding the cost before we start any procedure,” The Emergency Room Doctor suddenly had come alive.

“Could you not do that?” a very irritated voice asked.

“No sir,” the polite voice continued, “We just log in whatever has been done, we do not do the billing.”

I could not see the people who were having this conversation. I was locked inside a very narrow bed (I am not joking when I say locked! There were bars on two sides of the bed which could be let down by the nurse. I could not remove them myself!). Anyway I was attached to an Intra-venous drip on one hand with a weird something around my finger (supposedly to track my vitals) and on the other hand was a band on my upper arm to check my blood pressure. I was (as all of you must have realised in the Emergency room of a big hospital). There was a curtain all around me so I could not see anyone, but I could hear everything!

Being bored (I could not even use my phone) I listened to whatever was happening on the other side of the curtain.

There had been a pause in the conversation (presumably the aggressive gentleman had gone to the reception)

Some muttering started…

“Arre Dinkar could have given me this at home!” an older male voice said.

“Why Dinkar, even Aaryan can do it! The cannula is already there all he has to is fix the lead,” said the all-knowing aggressive gentleman.

“Sorry Sir, I just spoke to Dr._____ and he said he had not said that no charges would be taken as you mentioned. The ER charges will have to be taken along with the IV set and other things,” a soft feminine voice said firmly.

“You mean that I have to pay twice the bill if I need to come in the evening for the second dose?!,” the aggressiveness was back in full force.

“Yes sir,” said the apologetic feminine voice.

I really don’t know whether the pair of them left and had Dinkar/Aryan do the needful or they did take one dose in the next bed. For I seem to have fallen asleep for an hour or so while the medicine went drop by drop into my poor molested veins!

The loud machine beeps woke me up to see that the bottle was empty, and no one was coming to check on me! So I rang the loud call bell, and a wee little male nurse came running and did whatever was to be done to stop the beeping machine. But I was still a prisoner!

“Could you please unwire me?” I asked politely.

“No Ma’am you need to have your breakfast before I can do that,” said the tiny boy.

The break fast came (As inedible as you all must have experienced) Fortunately I had had a huge, delicious breakfast before, so I just pushed the food around, had a sip of the cold coffee and waited.

“Doctor, the pain starts at my hips and travels to my toes. That too only on my left side,” an insistent voice said.

“Do you feel any pain when I do this?” this was obviously a doctor speaking.

“No, not really”

There were lot of similar questions and at last I heard an “Ahhhh.” So the point of pain had been found! I felt like saying “hallelujah!”

“Actually Doctor, we just returned from the Kumbh mela yesterday. I was fine all the while I was there. I even walked to the taxi by myself from the airport. But at night the pain was unbearable, so I came to you.” Explained the insistent voice.

“Hmmm; should I call the specialist or the on call Orthopaedic?”

“Before you do that, I must tell you that I had a mild stroke in December due to a blood clot. I didn’t want to take chances, so I came here. Could this pain be due to another clot or because there is a slip disc or……....” the voice continued with options and treatments.

“The concerned doctor will be able to clarify your doubts, sir.” Said a very tired but clipped voice.

Meanwhile I got a glimpse of my nurse, and I called him to free me up as I had finished my breakfast. He came and with a flourish opened the curtain in front of me.

“Please wait I will call someone.”

Now I saw a very harassed looking lady carrying a lot of reports and x ray reports in a huge bag peeping at me. I smiled at her, and she smiled back sympathetically. Dressed in a salwar kameez which looked as if it had fought with the fifty-crore population of Kumbh Mela she had the stoic look of a long-suffering woman. So, I smiled back at her sympathetically.

The Orthopaedic had come in the next cubical!

I heard a lot of groans and ahaaas and then.

“I will send you for an x ray and then we shall decide on the course of treatment” a very firm medical voice said sweeping away all the information that the patient had to give him.

So I got a glimpse of ‘Mr. Kumbh Mela Returned’ on a wheelchair followed by his wife pass by my cubical.

Now a new male nurse came and took out the tube connected to my cannula. He searched for the armband around my other arm. I sheepishly told him that I had already removed it.

“What about my cannula?” I insisted.

“After your dues ma’am,” he said as he disappeared from my sight.

I was right in front of the Nurse’s Station. However hard I tried I could not catch the eyes of the nurse peering into a computer. Having spent quite a bit of my life in the North I knew how to be pushy.

“Hi Sister!” I hollered and she had to look up.

“Please could you remove the cannula?”

“As soon as your dues are done,” she mumbled.

I got distracted by ‘Kumbh Mela returned.’

“From your x-ray I can see that everything is ok. So it must be a muscular problem. We will keep you on Muscle relaxants for a couple of days and then take a call whether to go for MRI or CT scan’,” the firm voice said.

“They have not taken a Xray of my spine. Suppose some disc has slipped ….,”

“We can give you an IV painkiller here and then see what happens if you prefer that”?

“You are sure this medication you are prescribing will solve my problem?” KMR asked.

“Yes,” said the doctor firmly.

The sigh I heard across the curtain was unclear whether it was the patient or his wife.

Thankfully, my lord and master had paid the ‘dues’ and then another nurse came to release me from my cannula jail and I tottered back to the car and to home sweet home.

Poochi and the maid story

 

 

Here I am again! Pouring out my tale of woe!

The thirtieth (or is it the thirty fifth?) maid bites the dust. Let’s not go into physics or math or the emotional quotient of whose fault was it. After thirty-five years of setting up and running various homes (the major part is employing maids!) I thought I was an expert. But we live and learn!

When we moved into our brand-new home which I really splurged on decorating to my taste (till now we had lived in company quarters or rented apartments), I thought I would find that elusive angel who will help maintain my little castle. Three and a half years of training, manipulating and overpaying have not got me anywhere near my ideal maid.

During one of the long absences of any help in the house, we decided to invest in a robot cleaner. I was thrilled with it. We had a washing machine to clean, a dryer to dry the clothes and a dishwasher to wash the dishes but floor cleaning did take up a lot of time and energy. So, our new robotic maid gladdened my heart.

I defiantly named it “Poochi” and referred to it as a ‘he’! (the ladies had so disappointed me!) He was so cute. I program it and he obeys me to a T. First, he maps the house, then he whirs about the house, cleaning the carpets and floor minutely. He mops whenever I put the mopping plate in and refuses to cross the barriers which I have put on the map. He also gives me updates… “Please untangle the left side brush” or “battery is low returning to charge” or “cleaning complete”. After finishing all work, it will locate the charger and shake itself and then climb on to the charger and charge itself.

Could you find a better maid? No arguments about “your house is too big you need to pay more” or “I am not coming tomorrow” or a sudden telephone call “Madam I am not feeling well won’t come for work today” etc. etc.

During this time, I continued trying human maids on and off (the dishes must be kept in their place; clothes must be folded and ironed; dusting must be done….) While a maid was employed, I gave Poochi a well-deserved break. I cleaned him up to his pristine white and handsome self, gave him some TLC and he was used as a decoration and as a conversation opener. I introduced him proudly to all our visitors and I have a feeling he preened himself!

But I Suspect that I have spoilt him and so have all the maids! He has used his AI  (Artificial Intelligence)to educate himself on the wiles of the maids.

It started some six months ago. We had returned from a trip and of course there was no help. So Poochi was cleaned and recharged.

The first day he did half the house and complained “battery low returning to charge” and did exactly that. The second day it was “Unable to locate starting new cleaning cycle” (this meant he would map the whole house and clean and obviously half way through the battery would get low!)

Anyway, soon a new maid was installed and Poochi was returned to being a ‘Man of leisure’.

When the last maid fell. I went back to Poochi……

He started his dramatics! Every day the battery would turn low just before he came to clean our bedroom, and he would slink away to charge himself. Once I put him physically in our bedroom at the beginning of the cleaning cycle. The cheeky fellow just took a perfunctory look around the room and rushed off to the living room and went about thoroughly cleaning and again our bedroom had to be cleaned by me.

Just a couple of days back Poochi started his ‘cleaning cycle’ properly. I needed to go out for some minor work. He had completed around half an hour of work when I left. I had just reached the first shop when I got a message “brush tangled please untangle!”. I just ignored the message and returned home after two hours.

Poochi was snoozing on the fluffy bathroom mat! Nothing was tangled! The moment I pushed the start button he went merrily about doing his work. But as usual “low battery returning to charge” pinged on my phone when he had just entered our bedroom!

So Poochi’s brain has assimilated all the tricks of the trade from all my innumerable maid and is determined to never let me rest on my laurels. I have complained to the manufacturers, and they have promised to get back to me as soon as possible!

My Jetson’s dream is shattered at the moment…..