The boy disappeared one day in July. He went out to play and never returned, said his mother.

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But I knew where he was. He was in our mango orchard, the one my grandmother had saved from being usurped by the government by writing to The Lady herself.

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The first time I saw him was during the monsoon, when, like every year, a crane came to feed in our orchard. My uncle said that many years ago, this crane had a partner who died and that this is one species of bird that never mates again.

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A few days after the crane came to our orchard, I saw a boy of about ten or twelve years old stalking the crane to try and catch it.

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“Why are you bothering the crane?” I called out and he ran away, but returned a few days later. During the afternoons, instead of sleeping, I would sit outside in the heat waiting for the boy, as the crane grazed on worms.

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One day, the boy brought a friend, probably to keep a look out for me. I took my dog out to scare the two but instead of running away, they just stared at me, as I cursed them out while holding fast to the leash. They seemed more fascinated than scared–they had probably never seen an old woman yell and curse like a man before. They ran away by the time I reached the gate.

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The boy didn’t come back for a couple of days but then there he was, following the crane in his white school shirt, carrying a water bottle in his hand. I wondered why he wanted to catch the crane so badly, and thought to ask him, but then decided to complain to his mother. He ran as soon as he saw me, but I followed him to his neighbourhood. A girl of about fifteen came to the door that he had just entered. I presumed it was his elder sister, and asked: “Where is your mother?”

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“She’s not home,” she said but I could tell she was lying because it was unusual for people in our town to venture out in the searing heat. I didn’t want to argue with this child, so I said: “Tell your mother that her son has been bothering us. He comes to our orchard every evening. What if he gets hurt? The orchard is no place for children to play. We don’t want to see him in our orchards anymore.”

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This entire message was probably never delivered to the mother because next week, the boy was back again, bothering the crane, who was trying to dodge him.

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This time when he saw me, he ran but not towards the gate; instead he started climbing one of our mango trees with the intention of climbing onto our wall and from there, our neighbour’s roof.

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I got so upset that I picked up a stone and launched it at him. It hit him in his head and he fell off the tree.

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That’s when my dog grabbed his leg and I kicked him. The boy left by the main gate, limping.

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I was worried. Would his mother come to fight me? To my surprise, no one came.

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Then, one evening as I was sitting outside, the main gate opened and about four or five boys started running towards me. They had stones in their hands.

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One of them threw one at my face and broke my glasses. My dog started barking loudly but she was locked inside. Then, all of them started throwing stones at me. One hit my chest so hard, it took my breath away. Another hit my arm, and seemed to crack my brittle bones. That’s when I started screaming, and they ran away.

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I ran inside and locked the door behind me. I gave my panting dog some water and drank some myself. Then, I called the police but when they asked for my name, I panicked and hung up the phone. I threw cold water on my face and cleaned my wounds. It was seven, time for dinner, but I made tea instead, and sipped it in bed. It rained all night and I dreamt of my body: marble-coloured intestines splayed out on damp earth, mouth swallowing magpies, and my eyes gazing up to take in the forest green of the mango leaves set against a bright blue sky.

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A few years later, I left my house with the orchards. When I returned, the crane was gone. One evening, I saw that boy on the roof of our neighbour’s house. I looked away. That month, a stray cat that had an ulcer on its face, finally died. My tenants, who had taken care of it–if it could be called that–left its body in the orchard as a feast for the kites. But I carried it on a plastic sheet towards our boundary wall, and dug a shallow grave for it. I looked up and there was the boy, or maybe it was just another child looking down, and at that moment, I felt the body in my arms grow heavy. I looked down and thought it was the boy in my arms, except his feet dangled like reeds and pus covered his mouth. I looked away towards the white glare of the sun until I could see nothing but black spots.

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When I looked down again, my arms were empty. I gently pushed the body with my feet and it rolled into the shallow grave with a muffled thud. A flower from the frangipani tree above floated down and settled on the gaping mouth. Clouds covered the sky and it started to rain.

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