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“Hey! Look…there’s…..someone out there, err……I think, look, - the Mango tree!”

Munim was shaken out of his reveries. He shrugged off his area of the quilt and mumbled crossly. He had slept with difficulty, the television had been blaring, with Angie, his wife, getting her daily fix from an episode of a beloved British crime series. On repeated requests, Angie had donned headphones and fallen asleep by his side, but much later. What time was it?

“Mun, please wake up,” Angie pleaded, peeling off her share of their quilt, with a jerk. The aircon was on full blast, and while it had been a humid evening, the night had cooled off. Inside their room, it was a wintry night.

“Please Angie, I need my sleep, I have an early start tomorrow. There’s no one anywhere.”

But Munim had been asked for help, so he had to wake up to the rescue. His nerves were rattled, yet he manned up, moved by an innate need to play protector. Although only half-conscious of the goings-on, be it in the bedroom or outside, his macho antennae stayed upright.

“I swear, I see the leaves moving, and shadows lurking.”

“Gawd Angie! Must you…” Angie had a penchant for the macabre and mysterious. Her fondness for crime series, her husband reckoned fuelled her imagination. Munim opened wide his eyes and observed her silhouette, and her open tresses, encased in a silvery light. She could have been a phantom herself. He was tickled momentarily. 

They both peered through the netting of the bedroom windows. Yes, the leaves were indeed rustling on a windless night. The moon shone on the lone Mango tree; resplendent, showing off luscious fruits, hanging off strong branches. It could be an eerie sight, were it not a familiar one.

“Right. Do you still see someone, because I don’t? May I return to the comfort of my quilt please,” Munim grumbled on, shivering. He had woken up and catered to his wife’s whims. Now that he had done the needful, he dearly wished to return into the covers, and snuggle. 

A door slammed shut somewhere in the house. The wind was picking up. Branches quivered and a fruit fell, thud! Angie shuddered too, and dug her nails into Munim’s arm.

“Did you not hear that?” Angie’s squealed, betraying anxiety again.

“Yes, I did indeed,” Munim responded from beneath the covers, where he had ducked right back, even as he unhooked his wife’s nails from his upper arm, “fruits, when ripe, do tend to fall off on their own.”

Sarcasm was Munim’s favourite manner, especially to his wife. She grunted.

“Listen, there was a storm predicted. Surely God is allowed to move the elements around a little without your wondering what he’s up to every night,” Munim muttered to his wife of many years. They were close, if not intimate. Their bond had undergone many a test, and they remained the friends they were when they had married. Over the years, they had settled into a dull routine, and life was a placid lake. There was little passion between them, simply a solid foundation upon which they both straddled their existence that ran a parallel course. 

“Evvvvery night you say, nasty fella”, this was followed by a full-throated scream.

“I saw him, I saw him, someone has climbed down and collected the fallen fruits, I swear Mun, I swear! Pleaaaase go, look!”

“Oh Lord, honestly Angie, what next!” Mun dreaded getting out of the covers yet again.

 “I’ll spend a miserable night otherwise; wake up with a migraine tomorrow, if I get any sleep at all.”

Now Munim, left with no choice, got out of bed, pulled on his slippers and strode out of their bedroom. He was grouchy yet while Angie wasn’t always right, she wasn’t always wrong either. He begrudgingly admitted to himself that she had a sixth sense, and on occasion had proved right too. He switched on the patio lamp. The light cascaded on to their lawn as well as threw slivers of white light upon the Mango Tree, lighting up parts of it that made the tree gleam with fervour. Its branches were swinging in the winds that were now fast and getting furious. Surely, the tree was roused by some nocturnal activity. Not that there was anyone out there that could be seen with the naked eye. He pulled open the sliding doors that led to the patio, next to the small strip of lawn. The smaller tree next to the larger Mango tree stood still, unmoved by any disturbances that had affected the taller fruit tree. What the hell!

Why did the winds only affect the stronger of the two- while the other stood immobile? Now he was intrigued and curious too. Angie had, in the meantime picked up a vase from their living room, and sneaked up behind her husband.

“You might need this”, she whispered, and handed over the large ceramic vase, warning him in tremulous tones. Munim wondered whether the penchant for thrillers had gotten to Angie, and she ached for some real drama in her own life. Why a vase? To hit whom? He sensed her anticipation. She had managed to transfer it to her husband. The shared quivers could be misconstrued for either fear or general anticipation. 

Munim was out on the lawn now, admiring the high moon. Despite the winds, it wasn’t a cool night. The night temperature lent a pleasant feel, neither warm, nor cool. The humidity of the day had lessened. Yet Munim needed to wipe his brow, realizing he was sweating. Was he scared too? He then heard a distinct sound, akin to deep breathing, something like a wheeze. He gulped. His wife was inside the house, at the threshold, and her silhouette, swathed in a beautiful and surreal light, glowed. For a minute, he was distracted by his wife’s contours, and desire arose. Even as he wrestled with a rising fear, primal needs overcame him. And then he heard a second thud. The sound rudely interrupted all else within. He would have to explore the Mango tree, and its night shadow, even if tentatively.

Munim moved gently to the farthest end of the lawn, where the magnificent old tree stood. He sensed a presence other than his own. He was reluctant to own up to it, being a practical man, a person with a scientific bent of mind. But fear has a sneaky way of riding the winds, and made its way, quite surely, into his loins. He found himself facing the swaying branches above him, and bent down to pick up a fallen unripe mango- which had split down its centre, revealing yellowing flesh, letting off its sweet and familiar pungency. Before he knew it, another fruit fell, hitting him on his head. He let out a muffled yell. Even as he rubbed his head, he remained acutely aware that he must remain quiet. His faint-hearted wife would probably beg him to get out of this beautiful new home of theirs, sell it and find yet another place to tie their horse. He also knew, she awaited an occurrence tonight, something to allay her fears, and announce that it had been taken care of, whatever it was. His armpits were now sweating profusely, and he cursed under his breath, even as his feet refused to move, rooted to the spot.

Munim wished he hadn’t given in to his wife’s pleas tonight. He wished he was still in bed, with her by his side, watching tv. The familiar comfort of the scenario played out at top speed in his mind. Anywhere but where he was in the moment.

Angie herself, stood transfixed at the threshold of their living room, looking ghostly. The white of her eyes shone bright. Munim threw a glance in the direction of the door- there was something otherworldly in Angie’s stance. He called out to her. There she was, still, statuesque and unresponsive.

“I’m okay, there’s nothing here, just falling fruits, a storm’s brewing- c’mon, all’s okay, you go back to bed. I’m coming in.” Receiving no response, he raised his voice in order to reach Angie’s ears. The unsteady tenor of the man crackled loudly, as if through a megaphone. It echoed in the stillness of the night. He then literally crawled back to Angie, forcing himself toward her. She had not moved. He looked into her eyes; she was in a trance of sorts. He quivered even as he lifted one hand and hit her face!

“Angie, Angie- listen, there’s nothing to be afraid of”, gulping repeatedly, dying to shut the doors and return to the safety of their bedroom. Perhaps he had been wrong; she was afraid, not looking for thrills at all.

While her body trembled, Angie was unresponsive on all other fronts. He looked at what she was staring at, even as he heard her breath upon his ears. She was alive all right. He turned and looked back at the Mango tree with her vision, and there did seem to be an invisible presence among its branches. He succumbed to the fear that his woman had managed to transfer to him quite totally, and held back a need to yell. He shook her hard, and she finally emerged into the world of the living, and dug her fingers into Munim’s arm again. Without uttering a word, her husband slid the doorways into place. He ran, dragging Angie with him. She did not protest. Her body moved in rhythm with his, without a whimper, its own will, absent.

They slid into the covers, and felt the united trembling of their legs, now duly wrapped in each other’s embrace. The Mango Tree swayed on outside. He heard Angie’s quick breaths, united with his own. They were as one, in this whatever it was, had merged with them. Her forehead gleamed in the light of the patio, which Munim had forgotten to switch off. He wiped it with his sleeve, and patted her head, placing his own close to hers.

He was now certain, that whatever it was his wife had sensed, was out there. His head hurt, but his heart hurt more. It had been strained. No, there are no spirits- he told himself, and shut his eyes. He then put his arm around Angie, and held her close. This was not a regular occurrence. Something like love passed between them, and a familiar intimacy rose to enclose them in its circle. He wanted her then. She was fast asleep.

What a night! He dreamt of swaying branches that were trying to get him, beat him up, and mangoes everywhere- ripe, unripe, peeled, unpeeled, and it was he who awoke with a migraine the following morning.

“Morning sweetheart!” Angie materialised by his bedside carrying a tray. She looked refreshed and contented. The wooden tray carried a large mug of warm lemon-honey water and a big ceramic bowl of fruit; luscious ripe mangoes!

“Last night’s loot”, Angie announced as she placed the tray on the bedside table, and beamed at her man.

Munim’s mouth fell open, and his forehead glistened, despite the cold blast from the aircon.