The Man in the Mango Tree
It was a typical June afternoon in Delhi Cantonment - hot, windless and unnaturally still. Most homes were shut tight against the sun. It was summer vacation time so there were no school buses, no children outside, no parade ground buzz. I had just poured myself a glass of chilled ginger ale and was flipping through a magazine when the doorbell rang-twice, sharply.
It was Ruma and Geetika, two of my closest friends, slightly out of breath and wide eyed.
“There’s a man in your mango tree,” Ruma blurted out.
Geetika nodded, “We were just walking past when we saw him. He’s not plucking mangoes… he’s hiding.
I followed them to the backyard half expecting this to be a prank or some elaborate joke. But no. High up in the mango tree wedged between branches and wrapped in a suspicious kind of stillness, was indeed a man. He wasn’t reaching for mangoes. He was crouched, unmoving, eyes darting like he was trying not to be seen.
For a full second we froze.
Another second passed.
Then one mango fell with a plop and Geetika let out a little yelp. We stepped back unsure if we should shout or stay silent. Just then our buddy returned from lunch at the unit lines and found us frozen near the tree, half-suspicious, half panicking.
“Kya hua memsaab?” he asked.
I pointed silently at the tree. The buddy narrowed his eyes and gripped a long bamboo lying near the fence.
“Kaun hai wahan upar? Neeche aa ja chupke kya kar raha hai?” he shouted stepping forward like a soldier in a checkpoint ambush. There was rustling. The man shifted slightly. Then he slipped and thudded halfway down landing on a lower branch with a grunt before jumping awkwardly to the ground. He looked up at us clearly embarrassed, holding a not so ripe mango in one hand.
“Maaf kijiye memsaab…..Pakke aam dekh ke chadh gaya. Aap log aa gaye toh darr gaya… chhup gaya,” he stammered.
The buddy stepped closer and blinked. “Tu toh wahi hai! Subah tiles laga raha tha saath wale ghar mein!”
We stared at him in disbelief. All that drama for a mango?
The man stood sheepishly clutching his prize like a medal. And before we could even react the buddy added, “Itna bhi aam ke liye taras raha hai toh neeche bol deta… jungle mein nahi ho….cantonment hai yeh!”
We didn’t know whether to laugh or scold him.
Geetika broke the tension: “Do you have a license for mango plucking, Mister Tree Panther?”
That did it. We burst out laughing.
Living in a cantonment has a beauty of its own….clean air, quiet roads and lush greenery with age old trees like mango, banyan, jamun, gulmohar and neem adding charm to every lane. But sometimes right in the middle of that peaceful setting, something happens out of the blue completely unplanned, completely unexpected. And maybe that’s why these rare little incidents stay with you for a lifetime.
Later that evening, word travelled swiftly down the lane. The other ladies began arriving. Fans in hand they were full of gasps and questions. “Was he a thief?” “Did he have any tools?” “What did he say? Was he spying?”
While sipping tea, one of them dramatically announced, “If I were there I’d have locked him in the garage till the MP came!” Another offered helpfully, “Why didn’t you just turn on the garden hose and aim at him?” Someone else chimed in, “You people are lucky. With my mango tree all I get are crows and one particularly rude squirrel.”
Ruma and Geetika couldn’t stop reenacting the moment. I simply smiled and said, “If this is what one mango tree can trigger I don’t even want to think what a banana plant would do.”
That day we learned that in a fauji neighbourhood, even the humblest mango can create a full blown thriller.
Not all dramas come from mystery novels. Some come from fruit trees.