In a moment of madness, the Mayor sawed down the acacia trees. Better to prevent more deaths, he said. One of the trees had fallen on a flimsy van the day before, killing a passenger. Hence the death sentence on the other trees deemed both weak and dangerous. No one stopped the swift slaughter. Very few expressed dismay, but did so too late in the day.

The acacia trees of my childhood  are all gone now. Gone too are the sidewalks with a canopy of acacia branches that shielded me  and other kids from the sun as  we walked to school and back home.

The sidewalks had to make way for progress, I was told. Funny how twisted this sense of progress has become. Motorists have taken over where the acacia trees used to stand guard on us kids.  Like doting grandmas they were there  as we swapped stories, and played “What if” duels.

“What if  you had tons of money, but your head was the size of a mungbean?” a boy asked a friend. The acacia giggled,  fanning us  with a nice cool breeze.

With Acacia Notes, I dedicate this blog to  the acacia trees of my childhood and all those still standing. With Acacia Notes – a not so random blog title after all –  I  hope  to carry on a conversation about inconvenient  observations, uplifting thoughts, fascinating ideas, and the seemingly mundane yet feel-good chatter.

Welcome! Thank you for dropping by.


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