The Mango Tree’s Witness

It was the summer of ’95 and the air was thick with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. I was thirteen, and my name is Arjun. I lived in a town called Vrindavanpur, not far from the bustling city of Pune, but far enough that the nights were dark and the stars were sharp. That day was Gokulashtami, and the whole town was a riot of color and sound. I had been out since morning with my friends, chasing the Dahi Handi processions, cheering as human pyramids rose and fell, drenched in buttermilk and joy. The sun set and the celebrations continued, and before I knew it, it was past eight-thirty in the evening. We were at my friend Nikhil’s house, finishing dinner, when the weight of reality crashed down on me. My house was a good forty-five minute walk away, and the streets were emptying. Panic swelled in my chest. I bolted my food, asked Nikhil to walk with me halfway. He agreed, and we set off, the echoes of distant drums fading behind us.

Nikhil left me at the old banyan tree that marked the midpoint of our town. From there, it was a lonely, winding road lined with shuttered shops and sleeping houses. The streetlights were few and far between, casting pools of sickly yellow light. My heart pounded in rhythm with my footsteps. I clutched the small torch my father had given me, its beam a frail shield against the pressing dark. Every rustle of leaves, every distant dog bark, made me flinch. I walked faster, chanting a half-remembered prayer under my breath.

Finally, I reached the high iron gates of my ancestral home. Our house was an old, sprawling bungalow, set in a large compound with towering mango and neem trees that had stood for decades. The front door was a heavy wooden slab, always locked from inside by eight. I fumbled with the latch, but it wouldn’t budge. I cursed under my breath and made my way around the side of the house, heading for the back door, which was always left ajar for latecomers. The gravel crunched under my worn-out chappals. The trees here were denser, their branches forming a canopy that swallowed the faint moonlight.

I reached the back door and knocked, waiting for my mother’s familiar scolding. But the room was silent. I knocked again, harder. Still nothing. Annoyed, I turned around, aiming my torch beam across the compound, hoping to catch a glimpse of a wakeful relative. The beam swept across the grass, over the roots of a massive mango tree near the compound’s corner. And there, crouched at the base of the tree, was a woman. She was sitting on the ground, knees drawn up, wearing a white saree. Her hair was loose, covering her face, cascading down her shoulders and onto the grass. Her back was to me, but I could see she was perfectly still. My first thought was that it was our neighbor, Mrs. Deshpande, who often came to sit in the garden. But something was wrong. She never wore white like that, and her hair was always neatly tied in a bun.

I called out, ‘Aai? Is that you?’ No response. Maybe it’s a stray woman seeking shelter, I thought. But it was dangerous. I took a step closer, the torch beam trembling. ‘Are you alright?’ I asked, my voice cracking. The figure didn’t move. A cold dread crept up my spine. I remembered the stories my grandmother told me, about spirits that linger in old trees, hungry for the living. I wanted to run, but my legs were rooted. Then, slowly, the woman began to turn her head. The hair parted, and I saw a glimpse of a pale cheek, and then… nothing. She vanished. The spot under the mango tree was empty. The grass was undisturbed.

I stood there, heart hammering, the torch beam shaking. A scream lodged in my throat. Then, the back door creaked open behind me. My father stood there, his face angry. ‘Arjun! What are you doing standing in the dark? Get inside!’ I stumbled past him, my eyes fixed on that empty space under the mango tree. I never told anyone what I saw. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. The memory of that pale face, and the way she disappeared, haunted me. The next morning, I asked my mother about the tree. She said an old woman, a widow, used to live in our compound in a small hut many years ago. She died of grief after her only son drowned in the well near the tree. They say her spirit never left. I never walked that way after dark again. And to this day, whenever I see a mango tree swaying in the night wind, I remember the woman in white, and I wonder if she is still there, waiting, under that tree.