Word Count: 3470
Any minute now. Perhaps I should have picked a more comfortable place to die. The rough bark from the tree I am resting on digs into my back like a warning. No, this is exactly where I want to be. Besides, there is no point in running. Where could I go? Where could anyone go?
I gaze up at the tree. Its leaves long and drooping, plump lime-green mangoes hanging proudly from their stems. I am slightly disappointed that this is all happening now. I have not even had the chance to see my mangoes ripen into that gorgeous bright yellow and finally feel the satisfaction of eating something I grew myself. It has been eight years. Eight years since I snatched the seed from the mango that Baba ate and blanketed it in a warm, wet towel. Baba and Uncle Irfan sat side by side, eating mangoes and watching a cricket game on TV. Baba was telling me how to grow a mango tree; Uncle Irfan confidently claimed I would never be able to raise one myself.
“It’s much too complicated for her, Imran, don’t waste your time.” He snorted. I wanted to send Uncle Irfan one from my tree when it was ready. Maybe this is a sign from the universe that I should not boast.
It is warm despite the rain rushing down, as though Mama has her arm around my shoulders. I try to relax, to rid my mind of the same recurrent thoughts. All I have done, and do so every day, is worry. Worry about myself, the world, and the mango tree. I wish Mama and Baba were here with me. I crave that feeling of safety that would envelop me when they were around. A deep longing fills my heart, suffocating me. It is probably better that they are not here. I would not want them to go through this.
When the news first came out, no one believed it. Neither did I, if I am being honest. It was just so laughable, very much out of the question. I think reality started to sink in after it became the only thing all the news channels covered. Then panic set in. Grocery stores wiped clean, eyes glued to screens, ears drinking up any pieces of information given. Workplaces scheduled a closing down day when the time came. The hotel I worked at put together a ‘last lunch’ for the guests and the staff. Not a dry eye was seen in the room.
Uncle Iqbal, not really my uncle, who lived nearby with his family, was particularly annoyed.
“How did they not see it coming? How do you miss a planet? They left no time for any nation to prepare,” he said angrily when I went round to deliver freshly made biscuits one day. They were always kind to me, Uncle Iqbal and his family. Even if astronomers saw this rogue planet, suitably named Sicarius, months before, I doubt they or anybody could stop it from crashing into our Sun. I did not tell him this.
There is a scream, followed by dogs barking and a flurry of birds. I do not look. I do not want to look. I would much rather stare straight ahead and pretend the world is not about to end in a few seconds. I notice the rain has also stopped, as though the Earth has held its breath. Seconds pass with nothing happening. I have closed my eyes at this point, too afraid to even look at the ground. Seconds add up to minutes. Maybe I have died, and this is an in-between of sorts, or perhaps I am floating around in space. I open my eyes.
It is like I am looking through a tinted car window. The once vibrant Earth has become gloomy. I hear a slow, light tapping sound; I almost think it is raining again. Something falls beside my leg. It is dark and no bigger than a one-rupee coin. It might just be an insect, but it is not moving. Did it fall from the tree? I see another one a few feet away, stark against the grass on which it sits.
I scramble up onto my feet and look around. The Sun still stands proudly in the sky. I am not sure why this surprises me. I do not think that any planet, no matter how fast it travels, would be able to destroy the mighty Sun. How am I still here? How is everything around intact? I must be dreaming. I must have fallen asleep. After all, my dreams never make any sense; neither does any of this. I go back into the house and open the front door.
“Leilah?” a voice calls out. It is Pari, Uncle Iqbal’s wife. She looks distressed, so different from her usual clean and tidy look. Everyone expected the collision, but no one expected to survive.
Pari and everyone else in the neighborhood, I learn, are just as much in the dark as I am. All anyone can do is cast fearful looks towards the sky, but the Sun remains glowing, defiant. There is a cool breeze; I notice that Pari is shivering, only wearing a thin shalwar kameez. She politely declines an invitation to warm up inside, already turning back towards her home. As the blue of the sky deepens, the chill intensifies. Odd for a May evening in southeastern Pakistan. Then I hear it. The emergency alert system alarm blares from inside the house.
I am not sure how to react. It feels a bit like when you finish reading a thrilling book series. That empty feeling of ‘what now?’. Except, I do not find any of this exciting. Although astronomers cannot be sure, the other planets appear to be alright. The temperature on Earth, on the other hand, has drastically fallen. Most likely on the other planets too. So far, it has decreased by 30 degrees Celsius. It is unclear if it will drop anymore.
The small, dark objects I saw outside were fragments of planet Sicarius, which had burst as a result of the collision, sending pieces of itself far and wide. As of now, no considerably sized fragments have fallen to Earth, possibly because we are far from the Sun. Mercury probably got the worst of it. It is too soon to determine how safe the fragments are. They appear to be harmless, however. I fall back onto the sofa, my head throbbing, overwhelmed by everything.
It is 3 am, and I am wide awake. An eerie feeling lingers. Layers of clothes and blankets keep me rooted to the bed. This cold is like gamma radiation, passing through materials with ease. Baba would laugh, call me dramatic, and tell me a story about how cold it used to get where he grew up in northern Pakistan. A sudden thought fizzes through my mind. The tree. How am I supposed to keep it alive now? Mangoes need heat to grow and ripen. A new door of problems has just swung wide open, but I made a promise to myself, so I have no choice but to walk headfirst through that door.
Morning comes with no warmth. I stand to water the mango tree wearing two shirts, one pair of thick trousers, a beanie, and a jacket. An icy-cold wind bites at the skin on my face. I pick up one of the fragments from Sicarius. The rock feels like ice but does not melt in my hand. The surface is smooth and of the most intense blue. I collect the rest, 5 in total, and place them on the dining table. I find it hard to look away from them, drowning in that magnificent color, unlike anything I have ever seen.
‘Temperatures around the world have not dropped more than the initial plunge,’ reads the strip of breaking news snaking along the bottom of the tv screen. It has stayed at around seven degrees here, never going below zero. I cannot even imagine how much worse it must be further north and south on Earth. I have not heard from Pari since yesterday. She is probably busy with her family. The house seems to feel bigger and emptier now; the daal I warmed up for dinner does not warm me up inside. I have never noticed how quiet it is at night.
A light from the dining table catches my eye. Each rock appears to be glowing a ghostly, pale blue. As I walk closer, I begin to feel hot under the layers of clothes I have on. Has everything gone back to normal? I pick one fragment up but drop it immediately. It must be as hot as coal. So different from the one I held merely a few hours ago. I run some water over my fingers and, stunned that they have not burnt right through the table, also grab a pan to put the rocks in. I am freezing again as I stand by the sink. I turn towards the dining table, and the warmth rushes back. Confused, I take a step backwards to find it is cold again. I take a step forward, then backwards. I do this over and over. Strange. Could it be the rocks?
I look at the news again. There have been reports of some people accidentally burning themselves with the fragments. Researchers are unsure why they suddenly produce heat. There are concerns that the rocks could explode or start fires. I am not the only one. This thought is comforting. We are all in the same rough water, even though everyone is on a different kind of boat.
“You must make do with what you have,” Mama would say as she would come up with the most exceptional solution to any problem.
“I can do the same. I know it,” I say to myself.
Another sleepless night had me thinking I could use the rocks to help my mangoes grow. I had a good laugh at the idea at first. Then I subconsciously created a plan of action for the next day. It may well be ridiculous, but it just might work. So here I am, collecting the things I will need. A part of me feels very optimistic. However, when I go to gather the rocks, the surrounding area is freezing like the rest of the house. I quickly touch one of the rocks. An ice-cold surface greets my finger. The others are the same. I hold them all in my hand and nearly throw them against a wall. Right when I needed them, this happens.
A quick search online tells me that others have noticed the same thing. One moment the fragments are icy, and the next, they are searing. There are a few guesses that they might be sensitive to light. Underneath the Sun and light, the fragments become cool. They turn hot during the nighttime or in darkness. It all sounds absurd. At this point, I must stop being so surprised when things like this happen.
“Till nightfall, I shall wait,” I sigh.
Anthracnose. A plant disease I worked very hard to avoid is now infecting my tree. I cut away the branches with black spotted flowers and mangoes. My heart breaks with each cut, but I must accept some losses. I pile on my last batch of compost, wood ash. Two branches had to go. My arms itch and burn because of the sap from the stems and the green skin of the mangoes. An interesting fact I bring up when asked about my mango tree is that mangoes and poison ivy belong to the same plant family. Good discussion topic.
Pari is here. She, Iqbal, and their children will travel south to stay with their family. She begs me to come with them.
“It will be safer. We will all have each other,” Pari says. I couldn’t, though a part of me yearns to go with them, to be with other people. I must stay. I want to stay. I cannot leave everything, no matter how scared I am. I do not care if it sounds childish, but I cannot leave my mango tree behind. Pari insists, holding onto my arm, almost pulling me out of the door. Still, I stand rooted to the spot. I watch Pari walk away.
In the late afternoon, I hang five copper cups from different branches on the mango tree and place a rock into each one. The mangoes will be exposed to heat at night and still have sunlight during the day. I head inside to check up on the news. Hundreds of thousands of lives have been lost due to hypothermia, famine, and other diseases that flare up in low temperatures. These people had no resources to fend off the deadly cold. They were defenseless. The aid was too slow, not enough to help everyone.
Aid centers have opened up where people can donate extra blankets, clothes and food to those living in terrible conditions. I look online and find there is one not too far from where I am, so I pack up the blankets kept for guests and clothes that do not fit me. Mama’s and Baba’s clothes still hang in their cupboard. I know they would give their clothes away in a heartbeat, so I pack them too. It is hard to let go, but others need these things more than I do. I hope the clothes comfort them as much as they have comforted me and more. I leave one of mama’s shalwar kameez that she loved to wear and one of baba’s shalwar and kurta. I want part of them to still be in this house with me.
I am on the way back home in just over an hour. My legs burn. A small crowd had gathered at the center, volunteers organizing the donated items into piles, people helping others to bring their things to the front. Some were huddled in groups asking each other how they were doing. This small act of unity to try and make a positive impact in other people’s lives was beautiful to see, and this was just in my town. Imagine all the things people have donated all over the world. We can only hope that everything does make it to the people in need. I can see my house just up ahead. The light in one of the windows shines through. Something mama would always do. She would leave one of the lights on when we went out, making it seem like someone was home. As I get closer, I see smoke rising from behind the house, dark gray against the navy blue sky. I pedal faster.
Fire rages on one side of the tree, violently lashing out, eating every leaf, flower, and mango in its path. A patch of grass below burns underneath a fallen branch. While a bucket fills up with water, I repeatedly swing a cloth at the fire to get rid of it. It doesn’t work much. I throw the bucket of water onto the tree, and the fire dies. Whole branches are blackened, leaves burnt away, and some mangoes are completely gone. A pile of sticks, leaves, mango seeds, and ash lies at my feet. I put my head into my hands and weep, exhausted.
Nine mango seeds. Nine mangoes wasted. A significant loss since my tree had around 20 mangoes waiting to ripen. A young tree like mine does not produce many in the first couple of years. I am so careless. The other three branches holding the rocks were fine. I guess that two branches had leaves too close to the rocks. Subsequently causing them to burn and light a part of the tree on fire. I count eleven mangoes still left untouched. The rocks are as radiant as ever, still generating a scalding heat, unaware of the chaos they caused. I put the broken branches to one side. These can be used for a fire in an emergency. I save the ash to use as compost for the tree. I bury the mango seeds in the hope that they might grow, although it is unlikely. This time, I am careful to hang the copper cups in places where no leaves will come into contact with the rocks. I poke holes into pieces of foil and cover the cups with them. I only hang 2 cups this time, more than enough to heat the whole area around the tree.
No trouble at night. I kept an eye on the tree while falling in and out of sleep. The rest is up to nature. There should be enough light for it in the morning. Cutting away the branches with anthracnose created an open crown in the tree. The freezing temperature in the morning might be forgiven with the glorious heat provided by the fragments in the night.
A few days go by, and I have seen no improvements to the mangoes. They are the same size and the same dull green color. I almost want to give up, as nothing appears to be happening.
The fact that the mangoes don’t seem to be dying keeps me going. It keeps me watering the tree and layering compost at the base of the trunk. Even just one single mango would mean more than anything to me. Farmers around the world, particularly in low economically developed countries, have been struggling to make ends meet, and the prices of some foods have soared. Someone might have thought of the same plan as I, but nothing has been mentioned in the news.
Jobs had gradually resumed, shaky smiles exchanged, relief mirrored in eyes. Getting back into the rhythm of things was difficult, and it still is. More people die every day, temporary shelters with small amounts of heating have been made for those less fortunate, while more permanent solutions are in the works. Of course, some people are angry. Protests and riots have broken out. They want this mess untangled. They want things to go back to how they were before.
It has been a constant uphill battle, for some more than others, ever since the collision. The news is full of different people saying the same things, “Stay calm”, “We will prioritize those in desperate need”, “Patience is key”, and “Violence brings no good. In these times, harmony and cooperation are essential”. That is when I close the TV.
June rolls around unexpectedly. Temperatures around the world have risen by the smallest amount, which is a hopeful sign. Till now, everything has a slightly tinted look. Although, it is better than before. The death toll, which at first rose rapidly, has slowed down. As for the Sun, there is not much anyone can do. There is little chance of going near Venus, let alone our Sun. Astronomers still say it is all about being patient. Waiting whilst unable to do anything is the toughest thing one can do.
I listen to the news on the radio now. I bring it outside with me while I nurse the mango tree. I find it easier to digest any announcements this way. I have slowly found a new routine that works for me and my mango tree. Once my shift finishes at the hotel, I come home to check up on the mangoes and let the rocks work their magic in the night. Pages upon pages of research have been released on the fragments from Sicarius. Ingenious ideas using the fragments are shared every day, and now everybody wants a part of Sicarius for themselves. I have been planning on sharing mine online. I started to document the journey of my mangoes using an old camera I had found in the house. The heat from the rocks has been working.
Some have grown bigger, plumper, with a healthier-looking green coating their skin. I did lose four more mangoes to insects, which have doubled in population during this, recently named frigus era. The last five look wonderful; I could not be more excited. If things go alright, they should be ripening soon. The process has been slower than it usually would be.
I stand outside, under the glow of sunset and the shade of the tree, working on clearing off the sooty mold from various leaves. These pests have been relentless, but I refuse to spray any pesticides. From the corner of my eye, I see something yellow peeking out from behind a bunch of leaves. My hand darts out to grasp it. My first fully grown, perfectly ripened, Sindhri mango. I feel like singing; my heart threatens to burst out of my chest. “For you, Baba.” I whisper.