"Oh no! What a disaster!"
The piercing cry of a woman shattered the silence of dawn and struck Sabur Ali’s ears like a blow. Around this time every morning, Sabur Ali felt a strong pressure in his lower abdomen. This time he has to get up. He had just relieved himself and slipped back under the warmth of the quilt when the wailing startled him upright. He tried to figure out which household the crying woman belonged to. To the east lay Paresh Kumar Pramanik’s homestead. He thought, “The sound came from that direction. Oh dear! What calamity has struck?” Sabur Ali stood up and adjusted his lungi, the garment worn by men across South Asian villages, in courtyards and fields alike. The sudden movement displaced the quilt, his wife grunted in irritation and turned over. He wrapped the hanging shawl around himself and stepped out onto the veranda. Though the biting cold hadn’t fully set in yet, the early morning chill still demanded warm clothing. His upper body was shielded by the shawl’s warmth, but the cold wind took advantage of the gap beneath his lungi, biting him sharply. Even while urinating, he got bitten once, cursed again, though only he knew at whom.
Standing in the middle of the silent courtyard, Sabur Ali scanned his
surroundings. Then, heading east, he stepped silently toward the source of the sound. On the clean veranda, he saw Paresh’s wife Maloti sprawled out, crying uncontrollably. His heart sank. “Oh no! Could it be Paresh…” Maloti is a gentle, soft-spoken woman. As a long-time neighbor, Sabur had never heard her raise her voice. What grief had struck her so early in the morning? Hearing the story from Maloti’s sobbing lips left Sabur stunned. Regaining his senses, he rushed toward the fields.
As daylight grew, so did the mourning. The cries spread from east to west, north to south, spiraling through the village and casting a shadow of sorrow over Maheshpur. Curious and anxious faces gathered in the courtyards. What comfort could one offer in such a heartbreaking moment? Many stood speechless, unable to find words. Some whispered among themselves. The crowd was more shocked than sorrowful.
The first witness to the tragedy was Paresh Kumar Pramanik. He always had the habit of waking up at the crack of dawn. After cleaning himself, he would sit on the veranda and chant prayers. He’d nibble on puffed rice from a bowl, waiting for his wife to wake up and prepare a proper breakfast before heading to the fields. Until then, he let her sleep undisturbed. She worked tirelessly from dawn to dusk and deserved rest. Maloti used to be annoyed by Paresh’s habit of waking up at dawn. “You toil day and night in the fields, working like five men alone. If you don’t rest properly, your body won’t hold up!” she’d scold. But Paresh understood the love hidden in her sharp words. He’d smile and try to pacify her, never arguing. Eventually, Maloti stopped protesting.
In sixteen years of marriage, Malti had not had any children. Paresh suspected the fault might lie with him. Maloti, shedding tears in secret, believed it was her own failing that deprived her husband of fatherhood. Despite the years, she still heard whispers from relatives living just a few yards away. Elders considered seeing her face first thing in the morning a bad omen. Yet Paresh never uttered a word of blame. Maloti felt endless gratitude toward him. Barring the deep ache of not having children, their home life flows in quiet harmony. They found joy in nurturing their garden trees like children. Their lives, like those of others in Maheshpur, revolved around farming and care.
Like every other day, Paresh had woken early and sat on the veranda. For some reason, he decided to walk toward the fields. Pushing through the thin veil of mist floating like milk skin over the dawn, he reached the field and was stunned. Disoriented, he ran back home and collapsed on the veranda. Maloti was still asleep. His sobbing woke her with a jolt, her heart pounding erratically. Hearing the dreadful news, she rushed to inform their relatives. Her cries tore through the serenity of dawn. “Whom do I blame? Who could commit such a disaster, oh God…”
Next to Paresh’s land, his cousins Maloy and Ajay cultivated their own plots. The three brothers had adjacent fields lined with mango trees. In Maheshpur, nearly every household grew mangoes. Few homes lacked mango trees in their yards.Earlier, the village’s lowlands yielded three crops a year. But the cost often outweighed the profit. The grain yield wasn’t high enough to be lucrative. Five maunds of paddy produced only two and a half maunds of rice. The dilemma: would it feed the family for a year or be sold? Farmers were drowning in debt. Following advice from the local agriculture department, Paresh, Sabur, and Joynul abandoned triple cropping and turned to mango cultivation. Though risky, the promise of profit was tempting. When each tree began yielding three to four maunds of mangoes, the farmers were overjoyed. Seeing more profit in fruit than grain, others joined in. Nineteen years passed. In the two years before and after the pandemic, mango yields declined. Meanwhile, grain prices soared, prompting some farmers to return to triple cropping.The village chief, Torofdar, encouraged this shift. He claimed the shade from mango trees around his land hindered crop growth. Using this argument, he negotiated with some farmers to reclaim triple-crop land. But most refused. “We’ve raised these trees like children. We won’t cut them while we’re alive.” Torofdar left disappointed. These incidents happened just last month.
Sabur Ali sat silently, lost in thought. While the entire village slept in deep slumber, unknown demons had struck. The mango orchard was far from the homestead, so no one had any inkling that daylight would bring such darkness. Since the moment Sabur Ali had rushed from Paresh’s house to the field, even as the sun climbed high overhead, he hadn’t moved. He didn’t even notice where his shawl had fallen. Grief had turned him to stone.His wife, children, and relatives arrived after hearing the news from neighbors. Despite coaxing, he could barely sip a few drops of water. “It’s already midday, and the man hasn’t eaten.” Crying, his wife took their daughter and returned home. Sabur’s eldest son stood beside him, his chest burning with sorrow for Rupjan. He thought, “Maybe Aunt Rupjan has lost her mind like Uncle Paresh.”
Rupjan’s wailing made it hard to hold back tears. Her mute husband Joynul tried several times to comfort her in his own quiet way, then gave up. Sitting motionless in helpless despair, Joynul looked like a tree struck by lightning. His blank gaze followed Rupjan as she beat her chest with both hands and ran across the field, crying out, “Whom do I tell? Where do I seek justice?” Even the crows, disturbed by her lament, forgot to fly and sat silently in the trees.
The people of Maheshpur were simple folk, never meddling in others’ affairs. No one could recall any enemy, individual or group, who might have caused such devastation. Yet disaster had indeed descended upon Maheshpur. Piercing the darkness, it had left a trail of death and sorrow across the village. Every household echoed with mourning. In the fields and courtyards of the farmers lay rows upon rows of corpses–-not of people, but of mango trees. Trees they had raised like children, watered with sweat and love. The farmers were stunned by the loss of their precious treasures.
“The mute has no enemies,” goes the saying–but here, its truth seemed bitterly mocked. Trees that had never spoken, never harmed anyone, had overnight become lifeless bodies. The entire village wept endlessly. But this grief reached neither the ears of the Almighty creator nor the corridors of authority. These were unjudged, ordinary murders. And in this tragedy, not just Maheshpur–no human soul on Earth seemed connected. If anything, perhaps aliens from another planet were involved. So, dear people, do not be overly disturbed by the massacre of hundreds of mango trees in a village called Maheshpur, under the cover of night.
[Author note: Lungi- Typically worn by South Asian men.]
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