One thousand mango trees.

As the boat wades through the chartered water; the known path, my dilemma carves out its way; through forbidden territories, fearful memories and an unstoppable flow.

The boy with the goat reminds me of Tilu. Tilu the tree-hopper. Through green mango leaves, the green pond water and the green football field grass, his face flashes in the dark corners of my brown memory.

His life is a green memory; His death, red and scary.

The blood had oozed out first from his nose and then the back of his head. For a full half hour, I had almost marveled at the sight of his blood; oozing out gently and steadily. I had shivered uncontrollably for many many nights after that day; thinking about the magnificence of his blood; his life; gushing out from a bodily orifice. Tilu the tree-hopper died of a great fall. A great mango tree fall.

The boat reaches an island. It reeks of fish; and ghosts. Its called the Madh island. The light technicians blabber out stories of the dead. How easy they come, I realize; the ghost stories. Like as if ghosts have no life. Like as if they wander about in the wilderness of Madh Island and the likes out of sheer carefree glee and what not. Like as if they enjoy scaring people. I am sure they wander because they are free. Free from the pain of death. They are over and done with death.

Tilu was a living ghost. A free spirit. While I idled away my time admiring the shiny cobwebs and the afternoon sunlight coming in through a creaky half shut door, Tilu made nests on the various different branches of the thousand or so mango trees on my uncle’s acres. Aam Mamu; my uncle, pot-bellied, effeminate and stinking rich had acquired his wealth from his mango business.

He had shrieked at the sight of Tilu’s blood. He had shrieked at the thought of my audacity. Looking at Tilu’s [dead] body with unblinking eyes. Then he had run helter skelter to call people, make arrangements and pass the load on to my mother; in labor. Later that day, she gave birth to a still born baby boy; my brother, the unlucky one; he who died at his birth. I thought he was rather lucky.

Feet firmly on the island now, I march on to my destination for the day. A film set. Agnes Villa, the ‘bungalow’. I reach before time only to find myself measuring out the gothic spaces, the dust, and the broken props from some long gone production; memories from a past life. The sea breeze; enriching with its morning freshness; preposterous with its fishy stink, flows in and out of reach of the sprawling grounds of the sprawling villa.

Tilu had asked me to marry him once. I had agreed immediately. Then he had laid out his grand post-marriage plans.

“We shall have a tree house”

He had said.

“And you will have to cook food”

That was all he said.

My mother; with her rotund and still expanding abdomen had laughed so hard that I could almost hear my baby brother shrieking and kicking from inside; aghast at not being able to find it funny. Even I thought it was pretty cruel. To laugh off somebody’s [one’s own daughter’s] wedding plans. Tilu had laughed too; at my annoyance.

“I am a servant boy”

He had said.

“You will have to run away with me”

I had eyed my Goosebumps suspiciously.

The searing heat makes my sweat trickle down my back. As I run around on the grass and the steel and the mud and the wood; doing my work; earning my living; squabbling with people and making ends meet, I realize I just cannot stop thinking about my hero today.

His oily brown self used to glide in and around the dirty green pond and I would stand; agape; leaning on the freakish and rusty veranda railing. At times he would break his concentration and look up at me. Down the years; I have refreshed that scene again and again. His vision; his sight; his point of view. I could get excited at the mere idea of a servant boy of eleven; gazing high up from a warm summer swim; to the malkin’s daughter of ten; girl in a red frock; gazing down at him; wondrous and wonderful; marveling at his natural skills. No wonder he was infatuated. I am sure he was infatuated.

My father had never wanted me. He’d left my mother while I was still inside her. I never got to meet him. I could not care less. He was just a name. a still face inside a photo frame. Just a name, a face and some tags. Poet; artist; profound, and what not. They said my mother was too pretty and too simple for him. She should have married somebody richer. He should not have married at all.

“What if they say the same things about us”

I’d asked Tilu.

“They won’t”

He’d said.

“I will never leave you”

True. He never did. Still around. A bundle of remembrances.

The face of a boy with a goat; my co-passenger on a boat to Madh Island; the stink of the sea; the freshness of the dirty green pond; the scattered props of a wrapped up film; his scattered skull and the pool of blood; the wood beneath my feet; the sweat trickling down my back; the shiny cobwebs in the afternoon sun and the Island ghosts wandering painlessly in the wilderness.

Somewhere; far away; against a dangerous green background; stands a bright red tree house.