The memory of him came into my head rather unexpectedly. I did not recall much, but this pitch dark, round, bald man, forever in the white shirt and lungi who would cycle to my home almost ever other evening of my childhood in Ernakulam. He would sit in the verandah while one of the other adults in the house attended to him. Sometime I recalled he sat alone and I would be told to keep him company. I barely remember what we talked about, but he had an open hearted and down to earth personality. Once when the mango tree in the front garden was drooping with ripe, delicious mangoes, I remember he helped to tie a few long poles together to fashion a long mango picker. We plucked sacks of mangoes that day (he would take one sack home to the dismay of a couple of the some in my house). We called him Appachen. And he had long passed away. Just like many other people, who had been once mainstays of my life. Like Mummy. Papa. And recently, Sherrymaman. It brought to mind an old