Saturday, April 21, 2012

My Rickety-tricky Journey

Excitement comes in good times. Hope and excitement are two brothers. When there is hope, there is excitement. 

Last month, I had a break from my tough studies, and god, I have had never stayed that long separated with my beloved and my place. I had longed to go and go…and guess what time I woke up. The truth was, I never slept the whole night. I had a friend to go to the airport from Bangalore. And it was he who needed to reach at 6am in the morning but my flight was at 9am. And sharing the cost would be just matter of fact, I went.
My excitement fought the cool winter night in the airport. We waited for 10 or more hours. I received a message in my mobile that my schedule was changed to 7am flight instead of 9am. As luck may favor, or supposed if I had come late, I would have missed the flight. My friend was the god to me in this case and he talked about the god and human life at many instances. It was his lively discussion about the meaning of life, we had almost forgotten the people around. People looked at us with theirs big judging eyes when our noises reached them to some extent.
“Are we terrorists to get the beguiling looks,” I asked to my friend.
But Abdul jumped to his good conclusion, “Life is like that, to look and learn.”
Our topics touched on many subjects like life, old age, meditation, development, India, Bhutan and concluding with girls. One general fact came from him. He told me that girls were real author of all problems, and every problem occurred from them. Think. He gave me many examples and that i surely would agree to it all. In between, we went to toilet outside the hall for two or three times. We thought that the toilet was better than many living rooms of some of our people.
By and by, it was 6am in the morning. We went to ticket counter, we followed the process, and process was all in procedure. I liked that, but I didn’t like the behavior of friskier police to frisked thoroughly in a tough manner. Soon we boarded our Jet flight. We were in different seat. I felt bored without Abdul. We waved our hands time and again. The man next to me was an old man; he slept throughout his journey that forced me to sleep too.
It was in a blink of eyes the planed landed at Kolkata. Since I had to change my flight to Bagdora, I bade Abdul good-bye, who will soon fly to Guwahati. After 20 minutes or so, I boarded another Jet connect. I counted the time, as I was excited to reach my home. One minute, two, three… in an almost one hour seven minutes the plane landed-too long. But when I reached there, as luck may not had good turn on me. There was a strike and no vehicle plied towards Phuntsholing. There were some Bhutanese, they said it would be better if we could go and board train from Siliguri. And that was how we went in a rickety risky Rickshaw for 250/- each from three of us. We booked the train ticket that would be only after 2 hours. I banged my head on my bag. Why this day?
At around 5pm, the local train came. And... I heard the train would be the fastest mode of service, and who said that. That train was running at a snail's speed. My heart was boiling, and my mind all incensed when train stopped every one or two kilometers. I bang on the train to move fast as I have to reach Tala; to my beloved wife and son. I banged and banged and I cursed. And two Bhutanese friends had another awful news that we have to take another one or more hours journey from Hashimara in a rickety risky Rickshaw. “Maro, Jadha.” I shouted in the voidness of running train.
At almost to 9pm, we reached Hashimara. The two friends had somebody in Phuntsholing and since they had called that somebody. Luckily, the man was waiting with the Tucson car and the car sped made me gape with a small laughter. And within half an hour we reached Phuntsholing.
On the way, my wife called me saying that Phuntsholing cousin would be coming with the car. I asked him to wait at Tashi Commercial building. My Indian voucher balance reached minus and it stopped working. Such a glitch in the critical time! At Phuntsholing, I waited but he was not in the rendezvous place as said in Tashi commercial building. i waited for almost twenty minutes and I decided to take a taxi but a last quick turn I made, I saw his car coming from the Gold building. The Gold building is no gold, it’s rusted and ramshackle building.
“What is this? Mis-communication.”
We went to get my car. I shivered to drive after a long time. Alone, I started the journey from Phuntsholing, in frenzy and happiness to meet my family, I drove the car and it reached within an hour that usually would take one and half or more hours. And the rest…happy ending…

Below are some photographs of my journey.
Day in and day out Bangalore airport is busy
Sperms of light outside the building in the night

This is how Abdul and me waited talking about life and in-between flashing 

The tunnel of life
We need wings to fly

Aerial view of Kolkata city
Local train from Siliguri to…? chugging without passenger and running at a snail's speed

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Back to Where we Begun

A few weeks ago, our second semester has started. I told to myself, “Back to square.” And this is too with life, whatever we dream of, whatever we do and whatsoever life lingers on. It’s always will be back to square, back to square to death. But some mates try to break the rules of nature, back to square and I myself wanted to, the result I joined the semester  late. Good that I was late, as some even didn’t come for weeks.(But at the back of my mind, it says learning is the first priority). That one fellow (name withheld) has a habit of turning up to the class once in a blue moon. He wheedles with his life’s wife all the times and hearsay has conjectured that he might be scared of his partner affairs with trespassers…he he. During the last semester, which was our first semester, he just came to do his exam and god knows what he wrote. Let his result come, I will take his place if he success!

Let me now write about how we wrote our first semester and the last exam. Uh…to start this true narration is disturbing one and it upset me and I become slightly eccentric at times. Good things come and with those good things, bad things also lurk behind.

I’ve been writing exam for many times and let me count; I’ve studied for sixteen years and every year comes with two exams with not less than seven subjects. So 16(years) ×14(Subjects) =224 times. It seems I’ve done hundreds of exam and I sometime wonder what benefit had I got. The only one I can assure is fear, tension and lots of hairs fall.

Here again, after seven years, a person who gave exam to students is doing exam again. Hard nut to crack. The story of exam tension, exam miscreants and bullies fill the air during exam period.

I have a friend who wins through his talks. His speeches are like outburst of dam, rowdy and over-powering, who speaks through hard-loud-sound. His speech subdues anyone and is daring and forceful. Such tongue is needed in many of state of affairs especially while buying stuffs from Indian cheaters. He would cut the price with his forceful words to half. I would like to call his language as ‘bazaar language,’ rough and crude. And people who knows him know as ‘he speak like that’ or ‘his nature is like that’ but this nature ‘like that’ didn’t goes everywhere. He has given me the liberty to use his name in any writing. He always asked me to write his full name Omar Khalid Hashim, ‘Hashim,’ and nice that his name becomes legendary. Anyways, the legend also like the roaring lion caught in the net, he too suffers the consequence of rowdy speeches.

An unlucky university exam was it. It was the final paper, Hashim wrote something on his question paper that was not supposed to. It was two or three words. The stern supervisor found out and was asked why he wrote on the paper. And Hashim spoke his bazaar speeches that made supervisor mad and crazy to hear his noise. “Why you are speaking like that?” and there was some intense exchanges that disturbed the whole of the exam mates. The supervisor took his paper that made him barmier, rushing after him and exchanging over again outside the room, somehow lost his time. The paper was given to him after saying it was the last warning to him. Such is the advantage of good talker in a disadvantaged situation.

Everything is back to square in this second semester, our lecturing, our superfluous debates, everything. Everything. Except our HOD, Gender Studies lecture Dr. Umashankar left the college. We missed his sweety-moot-y, crafty-witty talks on masculinity, femininity and trans-gender. Nevertheless, our new HOD plus Gender lecture Dr. Prahbha would continue the human notion of stereotyping sex. Good!

Thursday, April 12, 2012

The Pain of Missing

My loving place,
I would like to go
My mind inclines there always,
But here I am;
Under the control of life;
Control of human
What I have decided;
To face.
Thinking of my home
Stream of tears fall.

Once the lovely secrets I had,
Regret now, I had not told you.
And faithless acts I had done,
I regret
Forcing the times, I don’t think I would
Throttling the feelings of pains
Thinking of you
Tears drop relentlessly.

What sin is this?
Samsaric is the world for me
Wherever I go
It’s sadness only
There is no solution to my sorrows.

Even if we come together
Because of fate we have,
We have to part
Growing through this sorrows
Life’s ending
I pray to god,
What wrong is this?
Look after me.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Over Beautiful, Over Dirty

My classmate who has dropped the school after attending sixth standard is in my car. Karpola is his name. He has his own dark flashback in his life. He is coming over for the first time to Thimphu, the capital city of Bhutan. All his life, he is married with his village, Labar, Pema Gatshel. He has been sweating over to keep his dependents alive. Doing farming, carrying heavy loads and living in the dark home as much for his dark face discord his name Karpola, white, he is living a mundane dark life. The main reason of dropping his studies was financial problem. Over and above, he is living with old stepfather, who is an alcoholic and beats his mother over again and over again. He has to take over everything as the sole survival for his mother falls over him. But me, I studied and have a job now. We meet after seven or so years. My parents’ house is on one lone hill and his over the lone hill. We are not overnight friend but infant friend. On having talked, he agrees to go for the break from what he says ‘over cowly life’ to Thimphu with me. Visiting Thimphu was his life’s dream and this could be his dream. He is bubbling over with excitement.

We travel the longest journey and most of the time; he sleeps inside the car being ill from dizziness and tizzy. On the way, he over and again says, “You overdrive.” But I overrule him, 50-60 kms/hr is overall an average speed. On nearing Thimphu’s city, we wash our face fresh and I ask him to be watchful of his dreamland. To have better view of Thimphu, I drive him from the Semtokha road. With open mouth, his tongue stick out he runs his eyes over every corner of valleys, down the big lane; hundreds of cars pass by, hundreds of buildings crowded. He pushes out, “Oh, over cars, more than cows in my village.” We just then cross Lungtenphug and see the whole face of Thimphu. He looks at the city with poking eyes; he cranes his neck through the car’s window. He looks arrestingly overwhelm. “This is over beautiful.” He noises in the air. “You have misused preposition, we say, the most beautiful.” I laugh and correct him. “Anyway, this is over beautiful,” he mutters. “We can see this place very beautiful from outside, let us check inside,” I fawn over. I like to lord it over my friend. We enter inside the town; we pull over and park the car at the side of the road. Now the man from uptown world is roaming the downtown world. We reach over the farmer’s market, I try to paper over the cracks, but he has a habit of drooling over every nook and corner of the market and that is where he got petrify, somewhat allergic of his dream. He has cloud over his face. The shift of scene has cast a shadow over him. “This is over dirty. Beautiful buildings, clean people, clean cars but over dirty drains, over smell, over wrappers, over papers what not all over the places.” He does me over as if I have handover this. I once again correct with some sense of responsibilities and shame of the place I was fussing over, “You can say dirty...”
My far cousin lives in Changjiji. We sleep over for some days while I have my spinning administrative work in the Education Ministry. Karpola seeing all kinds of people in the place, feels happy to mix in the mixture. I want him to experience a city’s life. One night, we went over with a bang to be a part of discotheque. We saw gangs of youth drunk, hauling over the coals and soon breaking out into a fight. “This is over dangerous,” he cries. I lose my words. My intention was to show him other side of life; comfort, beautiful and internally peaceful co-existence but it turns over. Karpola habituate use of ‘over’ put me in thinking.
The other night, I lie down on my bed and mull over the word ‘over.’ I double over with a hearty laugh thinking over it. But this isn’t laughing matter. Is it? I come up with so many reasons of the word ‘over.’ One can look externally very beautiful but dirty interior. The word between ‘over’ and ‘normal’ is like having two faces of a person. Everything overly over is bad. Over and over trying makes success.
After a week’s stay, he decides to go to his home because he has a sort of hang over of his village. “My village is over normal.” He seems to be head over heels in love with his countryside. I draw a veil over the subject. Karpola’s eyes glaze over as if he has over and done with Thimphu’s vigor. He gets over his dream, a rather betray dream and he went to his village. I don’t think he would be happy to spill over the news of his visit to his village mates. I reach him to the bus station while I have to return the next morning to Gedu.

Sunday, April 8, 2012


An enrapture piece of mind
Surrounded by happiness today
My mind
So much transported and euphoric
Entirely contented

In this heaven like earth
My angel here;
In front of me today
I wish everyday
To be

My birth here was happy
And luckier
To meet you
No wealth is desirable than you
The wealth of having you
Is the wealth I treasure?
No wealth can substitute you

My faithful lover
You will take through the life
Ups and down
And I thank you
and never forget
for fulfilling my dream

My only wish
is to keep you happy
the above god and goddess
wish us
with mindfulness of happiness
and feelings of consideration
to my heaven sent lover
Wish with no ills and troubles
Because I care you more than any wealth in the world.

Note: This poem is the very rough adaptation from Bardo’s song.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Lama Rinpoche

Dungse Thinley Norbu Rinpoche (1931-2011) was a major modern teacher in the lineage of Tibetan Buddhism, and patron of the Vajrayana Foundation. He was the eldest son of Dudjom Rinpoche, the former head of the Nyingma lineages, and also the father of Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse Rinpoche and Garab Rinpoche, known for his Theorma Tshogpa. He wrote many books on Bhuddhism including ‘White Sail: Crossing the Waves of Ocean Mind to the Serene Continent of the Triple Gems.’ Dungse passed away in America and his Kudhung(body) brought to Bhutan. His Kudhung was kept for the wellbeing of Bhutanese people for a month. I was there in Paro( Lango) when his Kudhung was to put on fire. Thousands devotees gathered, the count was more than 20-30 thousands. Some as early 2am in the morning came to occupy the place as near as possible. Those who came late have to parch on the caves and rugged terrain. Bhuddhist believes, Rinpoche was the incarnation of Guru Rinpoche. Below are the photos taken on Mechay’s day.

In the darkness, shines through Rinpoche's Kudung

Sanctuary in the sanctum

Have a close look, who is he? Politics in religion
Ah…oh wondering minstrel
Taking kudung in a Bhutanese procession
Swapping body into smoke, an evanescent of life. Many people cried in this time. It was an emotionally poignant moment.
People rising up to inhale the smoke and to show veneration
This is how rich people misuse the space-the good space while people have to parched on the rocks and in the trees.
Smoky to be on fire
Many Neljorpas tents camped around the place
On the way back home the famous Paro Dzong stands rain or shines for hundreds of years. My son’s son would be fortunate enough to see the same Dzong. I said this to my son and he unhappily said me that I will turn into smoke and disappear. My heart broke apart for sometimes to tear away especially from my beloved people and the earth. But who am I? The great Rinpoche has the same fate.
Forget the dying for now. Live now or never, I told my family. So, we mingle in tingling town in Paro town for sometimes. It really is a tingling town, the prices of the things made our head tingle. Those non-eating chilies Chilips tourists have inflated by buying of no use things.
The next day, we went to Phuntsholing to have gracing and blessing from Lam Chime. Lam Chime resides in Sikkim and is the main leader of Theorma Tshogpa in Bhutan. Lam is living for his devotees at this die-able age with his wife. Not all photos were clear and I think it was the cognizance nature of Lama to blur his image for an errant person like me!
And the wheel of the life rolls on and on...and kick the bucket unknown known unlike Lama rinpoche.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

The Value of Crown’s head

I am not an economist and I even don’t know monetary system in the country. I can only count the cash and the financial crisis or the financial crunch is a new to me. My economic teacher taught me when the supply and demand do not match inflation and deflation happen. I think this is true in every aspects of our life. When boys outnumbered girls, there are many demands from girls. Similarly, when production doesn’t match with market value there is an inflation. Now what the hell is with Indian rupee and Bhutanese Ngultrum. In bordering towns like Jaigoan, Samdrupjongkha, etc, the rupee has become scarcer than kidney patient looking for kidney donor has, and, on the other hand, Ngultrum is stacks of papers in the hands of merchants.
In this crisis, I walked downtown to experience it’s affect and effect and to believe it myself. I stopped in a shirt’s shop to buy a shirt. I intentionally wanted to give the shopkeeper a shock by showing bundle of Bhutanese notes. After fixing the price at 250/- I took out Bhutanese notes but the salesperson sudden crafty look at me was an answer to me. He repulsively said he doesn’t accept BC and he demanded IC and if I have to pay BC, I have to pay 300, that is 50 extra. He also said to my ears that if I bring IC of 1lakh, he would exchange me an extra ten thousands BC. I was wondering whether the barter system was creeping in and if it was so, paper cash was thoroughly useless as it didn’t have value. I just blindly agreed that I would try and this trying would be no trying at all, as recently a policeman was caught red handed for exchanging IC with BC at a higher rates. That policeman was red-handed by the shamus. I have a feeling that when it comes to money it would be the first law upholder to become violator or lawbreaker. I laughed at this joke. I have heard Bhutanese people are making big business with this crisis. I remember my father saying to me, “When one bull falls, another rises.” My brother who is a banker told me that we Bhutanese are real bull to do business that would affect one’s country gravely. I didn’t understand him. I am thick headed on this matter. Anyway, trade value or exchange value in the bordering town is 100 IC for 120 BC and it may rise. The value of crown’s head is losing under lion’s head. On the other hand, the government pays five percent on GoI facility and 10 percent on SBI overdraft facility.
I popped in my old shopkeeper friend who sells undergarments; I went there in his shop after three years (after these three years because I bought seven different garments from his shop at one shopping that would last for more than two years. The seven garments I bought from his shop made him crazy that would develop into a sort of underwear friend, and now…now…now I realized that have I really been economical to spend so much on small garments at one go. It was buying two cars when only a car is in need). He greeted me warmly to shoot me about rupees crisis. “Who am I to control,” I asked myself. I said that the government is discussing on it and it will be solved soon. After some blab…blabs. He friendly warned me that Bhutanese are great spendthrift and spend without any saving. I asked about how much money he gets everyday from Bhutanese customers and his reply was astonishing when he says that he gets about ten thousands or more every day. His was a small shop and if small shops like his could get that much amount, what about others. There is nothing that Bhutan exports but it only imports in a great amount. 90 percent is imported from India going money outside and especially border areas are flooded with Ngultrums. He had his same story that he needs IC to roll his business and like other businessperson, he said in the name of friendship he would give me better exchange than others would. I will try was a good reply that wouldn’t hurt him.

Bhutan’s financial institutions like BOB, BNB, etc have closed all loan schemes to curbed the crisis. Analyst says that it is a temporary measure but the recent talk by prime minister’s representative Lyonpo Yeshey Zimba was a scary one, who says that Bhutan would be reducing the size of developmental plan/budget in the next Five Year Plan. Is this a good way of solving the crisis? The present ruling party mustn’t only buy up for their own homes but for the country’s good also.  

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

My Dear Jane is a Game

Today (3-3-12- I write this article), I will post my undisclosed secret of not being a kind of sticker with girls like other friends. And guess why this day, not earlier not after… I am afraid I wouldn’t live to those days like my Mr. Dog. Today, my dear Mr. Dog kicked his bucket. He has been suffering from strange illnesses for 20 days. He moaned and whined with tears in his eyes. I took him to veterinarian but to no avail, his condition remained the same. I buried him near my maize field, said good-bye to my faithful friend and returned home wiping some tears. My pains didn’t end there. Likened to my Mr. Dog, I have been moaning and whining for 20 years, not less, not more, 20 years and not 20 days. I know the exact day, 7-7-1987 to 7-7-2007. Wow, how dates match. And this is the story between these years.

This is no tale-telling tale. It’s a true, tearing story of pain and weepy me and my inane happenchance feelings. The story begins from the beginning and leads to the ending (uh, it should). 

Pre-primary was such a fun. Many unashamed girls dashed each other, kids without underwear roll on without any reason, and many funny, lovely pictures were to be seen on encrusted books. Pictures, arts, photos were loved by children and that’s how children were made to get attracted to books. I picked up my first picture book, which would remain for 20 years. I was attracted by its cover’s art and such was the thought of mine, she was possessed to me. Simply was she beautiful, with little white cloche on her head. Her face pure and white. Her dreamy eyes smiled, her nose molded well, her lips sparklingly crimson. Beautiful adjectives for a beautiful face. I tried to recognized the letters of which were big and bold, J…A…N…E  A…U…S…T…E…N and below there were some small letters E…M…M…A. what was that? Anyway I knew her face, I enviously hid this ‘J’ book to the corner of the bookshelf so that others friends wouldn’t find and touch that picture next time. And whenever I visited library I got that book and immersed with her. She stared at me, I stared at her, and I laughed at her. Friends called me crazy and fool to laugh myself. I was not a fool, I was laughing with my girl. I really had fallen love with her. And many a times, I got bereft from librarian while I stood near the door hoping to enter inside. “You want to rob library or what Khotsa?” “No Lopen, I just want to see some books.” And the same response would come, “But your period is over. Go?” I really seemed to be maddened when I came running and tearing from my beloved who was locked up inside the room. The closer I went to the room, the safer my feelings become. She was then, preoccupied in my mind.

I had a good chance to possess the book, the same kind of book. I told my father I would never go to school without having one book from the store, as teachers would punish me for not bringing the book. 

Travelling for three days from my village, we went to a bookstore in Samdrupjongkha. My father grumbled repeatedly, “What’s wrong? There is nothing in the book. Just a girl?” Surprised or not I was very happy. I kept the book just above my head watching over me. I felt safe and happy.

I completed my standard VI and nobody could believe my result, I was awarded the first division. My friends thronged around me, “How come you stayed the whole year with one book and got first. That Rogtola (nick named given to class position holder) is second?” I myself was surprised. I believed in believing someone and that some one to me was that Jane, a girl I had fallen in love with. The more I believed in her, the more real she appeared to me and the more I succeeded. I chilled my days. I did carry my Jane everywhere and by then, the cover had abraded and smudged but her face shined through. I came to know that the book was a story of Emma, who suffered the threats of misconstrued romance (There was nothing to do with the content of the book but cover was treasured to me).

I never showed the book to anyone and if anyone saw in that high standard class with low standard book, one would go crazed. And that was what happened one unfortunate day in the home after my tenth standard common exam. My father ransacked and laughed at me, “This is what you learn in class ten. We bought this book when you were starting your grade and uhhh…still on this.” My mother interference made the matter worst. They talked each other and I could get some words. “He seemed to be masturbating looking at this art girl.” My father intentionally said so that I changed my behavior. I felt hurt. I was saddened when they said to leave the book and study the materials. My girl didn’t deserve this, to be called nonsense- masturbating. I rose up, ran outside and sat under a tree while my mother noised, “What happen?” The wind blew heavy. Little then I realized that I had been obsessed by her hollow love. The leaves of the tree shaded and it almost cover me for I had sat there for almost a day. My mother came with the book, “Take this, this is all yours.” My mother consoled me as if she had understood my feelings. “No, I put this book by mistake in my bag.” My mother forgave me though I had done nothing wrong. But there was my father who ridiculed me calling often “dead log,” “ludicrous boy,” “be careful” and scores of others.

The next academic started and I was to leave my other half at home. Before I came out from the home, my father thoroughly frisked my bags and finding the book on his own bed, he let me go. It was axing of a tree. I bled and the whole year, missing and pissing went on. I didn’t have any lover as I had already one and I didn’t want to betrayed my childhood love. I kept in mind and there was one thing in my life now, to know who she is. Life was whirling in the flood then; troubled studies and unsayable emotional sicknesses.  I tried to find that book, but it was out of edition. She came to my mind and in my dreams as an angel. My dear Jane predisposed me in the game of love. I did spend those mystified years with her, emotionally and mentally.

The same story plunged me my three years B.Ed (Bachelor of Education) course in Samtse. However, I thought a little less of her, as I had to busy with my tough materials. But my dear Jane was often in my dream. One day I vividly remembered I told my friend unnoticing to myself that I love Jane very much. That friend got quite surprised and irritated about Jane and he said, “Don’t remind me of that, I loved that art of a girl.” I laughed at him but stopped it abruptly knowing the consequence. Such was the fate of loving a girl. My mind as if hit with a big tong pricked out this was not a dream. Dream or real, I thought about her day and night.

The avenues of life changed more than our government changes its policies. It cicatrized at times. Technologies adjust the life and the technologies revive and destroy too. The feeling of pride of modernization, the feeling of new things, I opened internet and it was the blindest searched to see my art girl. Everyone would question me now. It crazed me too. And believe me, it was exactly her. I couldn’t misjudge it as I had been her with so many years. And believe me she had worn same little white cloche cap on her head. The same pure and white face, the same dreamy eyes, the same sparking lips. Her picture on the screen lingered me. I read her details (and sorry I don’t want to share her details, my wife will kill me). Her name was not Jane, hers was something--- but I like to call her Jane. My father would learn all the ways to operate an internet if I show the art girl. And about that book and art girl, my father later on told me through his telephonic conversation that he really got some misunderstanding with my mother and she had to burn that book. But to me now I have internet to see her every day. My father would wish too.

In fact, to see her and to think about was to throw me like a stone fling far apart, ditched and separated. She was far; so many mountains and seas separated us. I had fallen, my hands shivered to write something to her. I, blinded with love words, expressionless and wordless I suffered. And Jane if somehow you read this true story about you, I would like to say that I have been waiting for you twenty years just like my Mr. Dog, moaning and whining. And sorry to say my dear Jane, life like this to live…I am married and what to do my dear Jane you will remained in my heart forever and ever and ever till I kick the bucket and till my soul ceases to function. This I promise you. But my wife is my life now.