The Mango Tree

Note: Reposting an old short story

As the bullock cart wheels kept on whirling, its screaking sound created eeriness in the vicinity. But still Tatya was poker-faced. It was one of those darkest hours, when even the nocturnal creatures would like to stay back and recline at their dwelling place. The breeze was nippy and chilly, so he covered himself with a blanket that was torn at some places, making only his fearsome beady black eyes with yellowish sclera, visible.

The street lights that were erected on the edge of the road merely existed, as only one or two lit up, that too at the farther corners of the road. His jet-black colour and white colour gelded bulls were taking the air with their own pace. While moving their heads left-right, they showed a bovine apathy owing to the yoke’s weight on their neck.

Occasionally, Tatya used to take out his pouch, which was tucked in his faded blue coloured half pant, filled with a pack of beedis. Puffing a beedi or two, he used to utter chuck-chuck sound, so as to keep on the movement of his twosome. Very rarely he whipped his favourite pair, as they were habituated to his chuck-chuck sound, which prompted them to start and stop and follow a certain path.

He had immediately left his home after having a lunch to drop the heap of rice sacks, so that he reaches the distant village and come back home on time. But all his calculations went wrong. The weight on the cart was too much, leading to slow movement of his two mighty bullocks. On that day, they travelled over 50kms, to and fro. And while returning they took only ten-fifteen minutes break to get replenish.

He was only forty minutes away from his home when he reached the village church, St. Anne’s. The pleasant looking white-washed 18^th century parish church appeared like a sorcerer draped in a white fabric. Behind it was a graveyard, where the death beds were covered by crawlers & creepers, and the huge old Banyan, Mango and Jamun trees provided shelter to those sleeping permanently.

As he drove ahead, he came across a coconut fringed road flanked by paddy fields and an age-old Mango Tree; one of those awe-inspiring stretches, which anybody would like to capture through lenses during daytime. But at night, the same path had a profound capacity to evoke goosebumps. When the cart moved on that trail, a pack of jackals who everyday descended at the stroke of sunset from the surrounding hilly habitat to find some prey down, started crying ‘rah, rah’ at a certain distance. Very next moment, an owl flew off his head, making a hooting sound and then sat on that age-old Mango Tree.

But Tatya was a man of steel nerves; a strong dusky bald man, capable of carrying rice sack of up to 50kgs on his shoulders, easily. His rigorous field work pattern made his body as fit as a fiddle. His palms were rough enough to have a firm grip on the lasso. He didn’t bat an eyelash. He just gazed at the passerby, hooked the lasso on a wooden panel erected on the tray of the cart, cupped his hands to bring it closer to his mouth to puff beedi, gave that hooter a deadpan look and then pulled his oxen to march on.

The road was one of his often travelled routes, so he never cared about what’s happening around. He was used to with such incidences. And it’s a general belief in Parra*and its surrounding villages that until a driver sits on his cart, not a single evil spirit would dare to touch his hair. The person is considered to be safe and sound.

But as he pulled his cart, he suddenly heard a creaking noise coming from behind, which eventually kept on increasing. When he turned around to see what’s happening behind, he was bowled over by what he saw. The old Mango tree through which he just passed by, came cracking down on the road with a huge thud. There was no tempest in the air, not even any seismic activity, which could have uprooted that evergreen tree, but still it astonishingly fell on the ground, creating blockage on the road. The wondering part was that not even a single winged family got awakened by the thumping sound. In fact, within seconds the surrounding became unusually quite.

Tatya felt fluked, as slow drive could have landed him in the death bed. He escaped a great mishap.

Lifting that magnificent tree and placing it aside was certainly out of question. Even calling someone at that hour to clear the pathway was futile. Thanking to the almighty, he drew his wagon further to reach home.

It was still dark when he reached the road quite near from his home. However, his mind was still hovering with that life-threatening incident that could’ve made him breathe his last. He released his bulls, carefully placed the wooden-pointer of the yoke on the ground and then slowly whipped his twosome towards the cattle barn.

At home his and his elder brother’s family were in a deep slumber, so he decides to enter house from the backdoor. His was an ancestral house, plastered by mixture of burnt earth, lime and jaggery and floored by cow dung paste. He politely lifted the iron chain latch, which was hooked on a thick nail and then with a little hop in his steps he walked towards his floor-bed.

The next morning when he squatted on the cow-dung flooring, while resting his back on the wall for a cup of black tea, his friend Baabal arrived. Just like him Baabal was a farmer and occasionally carried heap of rice sacks on his cart. A bald, black man, who resembled as Tatya’s younger brother, had a rough and husky voice.

Tatya’s wife who wore a lugada* was busy preparing poley*. She offered Baabal a cup of black tea along with poley. Meanwhile, Baabal asked Tatya about reaching late night at home. To which he narrated the whole journey’s incident. While recounting the whole incident, Tatya recollected the tree fall matter. He asked Baabal, “Have you been to the church road this morning?”

Yes. Baabal replied with a husky tone.
Is the Mango Tree still lying on the road or somebody moved it aside? Said Tayta
Which Mango tree? Babal asked while holding the tea cup
The one which is on the edge of the road near the church. Tatya replied.
There was no Mango Tree. Baabal replied while sipping tea.

“How come? Last night when I passed by that road the huge Mango Tree descended dangerously with an unbearable noise. I was lucky that I went by that tree a few seconds ago, otherwise the tree could’ve crushed me to death.” Tatya said with astonishment.

His wife and Baabal kept staring at him for a few seconds, but there was no reaction from either of them. After a short pause his wife said, “Is it? You didn’t tell me when you woke up this morning.” Before Tatya could reply her, Baabal interrupted and said, “But the road was clear. In fact, there was not even a single branch lying on the path. The tree was intact.” He paused for few seconds and then continued, “You must have dreamt of its fall last night.”

But Tatya knew it was not a dream. The incident happened in real. He took a sip of tea, while wondering about the unusual occurrence. His mind was playing the whole incident again and again, leaving no space for any other thoughts. He was only distracted with the noise of the rising steam bubbles that happened when his wife spread some oil on a hot iron pan with Coconut hair. But then, a stream of thoughts appeared again, making him strongly believe in the existence of supernatural powers, ready to claim their widespread presence at any moment and through any form.

Two days later, he passed by the same road again on his cart. It was a bright sunny day, when he reached the Mango tree. He gazed at it for a moment. It was rooted to the core. It looked evergreen than ever, swaying and playing with the winter breeze. The birds gave frequent visit on it; some to lounge after a long flight, whereas some just to find their prey on it.

All of a sudden, questions flared up in his mind. Is the tree really swaying with the wind or casting a spell all around? Am I one of those whose stars go well along with the occults? Will anyone believe my experience or will consider the incident as just another fable? 

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* Parra - a small village near Mapusa, Goa.
* Lugada - a kind of wearing sari wherein one portion of the sari is drawn up between the legs and tucked in behind at the waist, while another portion is draped as a pallu over the bosom.
* Poley - pancake made from rice batter and black lentils