The Mango Tree

Stories about love and loss are many. But Keith’s story was more than that; it was about finding a constant in his life, through which he had drifted passively till then.

Our lives intertwined on a warm Sunday afternoon in Church. He wasn’t a regular; he didn’t know the prayers or responses, and he didn’t go for communion. He was sitting in the row in front of me, and blocked my view of the alter. He wore a white loose shirt over his low-waisted, faded jeans, just like all his friends did. His long hair fell casually about his neck and shoulders.

I felt myself grow warm as I looked at him. My skirt seemed too long, and I felt suffocated in my shirt even though the collar button was undone. I was 18 then. I had lived a protected life before that; my parents had been my guides and friends till I left home. I had loved my life, its simplicity and its calmness. I had left a lot behind when I came to college, including my boyfriend. But he had said he would wait, and I thought I would too. 

I got to know him as the summer progressed. After church we would meet under the shade of the large mango tree, and talk and sip lemonade. That’s when I got to know that there was more to him than the faded jeans and loose shirts. Keith was a quiet person. But the moment he spoke about his music, a spark would begin to ignite his body, beginning from his deep blue eyes and spreading all over his muscular body, and for a few seconds he would be alive. This was who Keith was. He was much like a virus; alive only in music and melody, inactive, almost dead outside it. But music wasn’t enough. He needed inspiration. And for inspiration he had traveled all over the country for five years, since he was 16. He would stay for a few months in a city that promised him a tune to change his life, and he would then toss it aside for a new one.

Our minds connected. We were different people, and perhaps that was why. He would listen to stories about my family and friends who I missed without any impatience. I would never tire of hearing about his travels and misadventures, but he seldom spoke of his past, and was always looking forward to working on his dreams. And as time went by, I found myself talking less about my past and more about my future. He listened to my plans, respected them, and never doubted my success.

I felt something stir inside me as I got to know him. My clothes changed to reflect the change going on inside me. I found an environment in him which had brought me to life. Slowly, but surely, I fell under the most beautiful spell I had ever known. He had carried me through the painful transition from the familiar to the foreign without letting me feel a thing. That summer consisted of Sundays, and the rest of the week spent waiting for Sundays. I never let him know how I felt. He was always especially attentive, which was compliment enough for me.

So perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised me when he announced his plan to move on to another place. He had been uneasy that evening. It was chill and dark; signs of summer fading away. As he told me, he had looked straight at me, his blue eyes suddenly jumping to life. I asked him the questions I was expected to-where he was going? How?-but registered none of the answers.

He looked at me helplessly, and then invited me to his friends place for sometime. I had not heard him play, he explained, and he couldn’t go without a concert.

I agreed, and we walked in silence. He opened the door without ringing the bell, and led me into a room. The piano took up most of the space, so I stood facing him while he played.

And slowly the magic began to work. His eyes lit up, and his skin turned a beautiful golden colour, while his fingers gently produced a melody as beautiful as him. His body moved with the beat, and I felt myself blooming into life, in his music and in his presence.

He stopped playing and came to where I was standing. His hands went up to my face without any hesitation, following the contours of my cheeks. I followed his hand up his arm. It was strong and firm, and my fingers touched it like waves on the sand.

We then let go, and after a final goodbye I walked back slowly to my place.

Keith was not a boy I loved and lost, he was so much more. He gave me his heart and soul so that I could heal mine. For him, that touch of innocence on his arm was the one thing which would remind him how far he was from anything like it; and that would be his guiding star all his life.

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