Taj Taher

McCue
Honors 345 A
4 December 2013
The Mango Tree
The air is thick with the sound of hundreds of people screaming1. The floury sand is lined
with hundreds of bodies2. The tide surges onto the beach, carrying the might of the Pacific3. As
the wind4 whips my hair about, either the sun5 or my nerves force a bead of sweat to trickle down
my forehead as I prepare to make the decision that could alter the course of my entire life.
Yeah, Ill go with the pan-seared ahi tuna. And some shaved ice please, I say.
Excellent choice, beams the waitress, and takes my menu as I breathe a sigh of relief.
Turning to the opposite side of the table, she asks, And for you sir?
He slams his fist down upon the table hard, his spidery fingers clenched into a kneaded
knot the color of alabaster. In his high-pitched icy tone he growls, You shall not address the
Dark Lord as sir, you pestilent boor of a Muggle.
Whoa! I exclaim as the waitress taken aback stands stock-still, flabbergasted. I tug
at her sleeve and spurt, I think just a salad for him. And try to be quick, I say, whispering into
her ear, Hes a diabetic so he sometimes gets this way when hes hungry. Thank you so much.
She nods and hastily gathers the menus. But before she escapes, his icy voice pierces the
air once more. Darling? She apprehensively turns his way. Grinning wickedly, the sunglasses
magically afloat upon his face (I say magically because he has no nose) begin to slide down,
revealing the serpentine slits set within his cruel crimson eyes. Do me a favor and take off the
croutons. Im trying to watch my weight, he says, gesturing to his skeletal frame.
The waitress vigorously nods her head and stammers a M-m-m-mahalo! before
scurrying away. He lets out a bone-chilling chuckle as she disappears into the kitchens. I shake
my head. What the hell was that all about?

6. Out of joy.
7. Being tanned.
8. And surfers too
9. Pleasant, warm, and soothing.
10. Glowing at a lovely 80 F.

What? he brushes off. He catches my stony expression and sighs. I was just having a
little fun with her. Pardon me, but I miss being evil sometimes.
Well you shouldnt, I say. You got your ass handed to you by a scrawny seventeen
year old with a magic stick, cementing your status as the worlds worst villain. I think Cornish
Pixies have higher cred than you these days. He fumes silently, but the fact that Im not being
levitated upside down while my appendages combust in flame tells me that he agrees. I smile.
Look Voldy, I didnt ask to be friends with you, but when I found you after the Battle of
Hogwarts trying to latch your undying soul to an onion, I felt pity. I figured all you needed was
some companionship and to blow off some steam. But you promised that youd set all that evil
stuff aside.
And you promised to take me on a much-deserved vacation to a fantastical place! he
snarls, snatching the decorative umbrella from his drink and snapping his fingers. Poof. A tiny
mound of soot sits in his palm, which he blows away directly into the hair of a little kid walking
by (Voldy hates children).
What are you talking about? This is a fantastical place! Its Hawaii for Gods sake!
He snorts, which I didnt know was possible given his lack of a nose. This is your idea
of a fantasy? No, this is a sham, a tourist trap. Its merely a mockery of what Hawaii once was.
You catch a luau, eat some Kahlua pig, call yourself cultured, and then fly back home. Its no
better than Disneyland: manufactured happiness.
I had no idea you abhorred happiness. Next time well go to a Gulag in the middle of
Siberia.
It beats the weather here, he mutters, pointing to his sunburnt scalp, the skin on top
beginning to fray and tatter. I grimace. I would ask him to put his hat back on to spare the
appetites of everyone in the restaurant, but that would only draw further attention to the rest of
his questionable attire. In contrast to the shorts, flip flops, bathing suits, bikinis, and the
ubiquitous rainbow of flower embraced Hawaiian shirts surrounding us, my companion is

decked out in a three piece suit that looks as if it was carved from a massive block of obsidian.
From the black shirt to the black vest to the black tie, the only semblance of life within the
darkness is the scarlet feather which he proudly claims he plucked from the pet phoenix of his
arch-nemesis but I think actually got from Jo-Ann Fabrics tucked into the side of his (also
black) fedora. Still, I suppose I shouldnt complain. He wanted to come in his regular robes of
billowing black, but I convinced him I didnt want to vacation with someone dressed in a
nightgown.
The waitress reappears, drops a colossal serving of shaved ice in front of me while trying
very hard not to look at You-Know-Who, and then zips away. Grinning, I grab a spoon and
prepare to mine the colorful mountain of glittering ice crystals, but before I get the chance its
snatched away from me.
Just look at this, he says, shaking his head. They call this Authentic Hawaiian Shaved
Ice. That merely speaks to how far this place has fallen. Whatever it once was, its now buried in
artificial flavoring. Just look around you, Taj. Theres nothing special about this place. Wheres
the culture? Wheres the exoticness? Wheres the sense that youre not just somewhere along the
coast of Southern California? You see, people make places what they are. Unfortunately for
Hawaii, its been infested with a plague of shallow, unimaginative ones who have been spoon fed
a misbegotten notion of paradise. Its complete and utter rubbish.
He falls silent and I steal back the shaved ice, shoveling it in just to spite him. I smile as
the mango flavoring illuminates the inside of my mouth. But the smile falters as the sugary liquid
slowly slides down my throat. Real mangoes dont taste like this. My mind meanders back in
time, to another place, a place far away. The tree. The boy. The thick aroma of fresh mangoes
beckoning me towards the boughs. The climb. And then the first bite, sweetness blossoming
throughout my body, golden nectar woven between my fingers.
I push the ice away.

Disappointing isnt even a strong enough word to describe it, right? I ask, smiling as
he looks up at me in surprise. He must think Im no different from the other vacationers thronged
along the beach. But he doesnt know. The tree. The boy. The climb.
I shake my head, setting the memories aside. I continue, You hear Hawaii, and
suddenly youre in the middle of a tropical jungle having a grand adventure. I snort. Weve
been led to believe this is some mystical land a world away, like in the movies. But when we get
here...all those hopes and dreams disappear, like sand castles caught in the tide.
Exactly! he exclaims, clapping his hands together. Its like that time I fastened my
soul to a bumbling buffoon expecting to take over his body. Instead I spent the better part of a
year stuck to the back of his head, underneath a musty old turban to boot.
I laugh. He cackles. But then I motion towards the pile of steadily melting shaved ice, the
colors blending together into a sickly shade of green. But this is not Hawaii my friend. Hawaii,
the real Hawaii, its still out there. Smiling, I recount some advice I once received. If you wait
for a mango to be given to you, itll be under ripe or just okay or even rotten because lets face it,
whoevers picking the mango is going to take the best for himself. But if you want the mango of
your dreams, climb the tree and pick it yourself. So Voldy, are you ready to climb the mango
tree?
Smirking, he says, If by your rather random metaphor you mean were going on a road
trip to find the real Hawaii, then yes, lets do it! We clasp our hands together in triumph. Then,
Voldy sighs, and while shaking his head says, Because I just know Im going to get suckered
into watching another god awful Katherine Heigl romantic comedy on the flight back, so we may
as well make this trip worth it.
Taj, do you want to guess which Unforgivable Curse Im planning to use on you? Ill
give you a hint: it rhymes with abracadabra AND IT KILLS YOU.
The mood in the back of the SUV is a little tense.

When I informed Voldy that our method of transportation to the Real Hawaii would be
to carpool with my relatives, his high spirits were slightly dampened. When, upon their arrival,
he was told that my aunt and uncle would take the front seats and that he and I would share the
three-person back seat with two of my cousins, he began to seethe. That was when he discovered
that one of my cousins was a toddler, no more than three years old.
I hate children, Voldy growls from his position wedged between the car door and the
babys car seat. I hate their smell, I hate their noises, I hate their
Neil the baby salivates on Voldys suit.
DROOL! he screams, completing his sentence and furiously scrubbing away the
saliva from his shoulder. Neil giggles and claps his hands.
Hey now, my brother isnt that bad, says my 15 year old cousin Nabil from the other
side of Neil.
Easy for you to say, grumbles Voldy, Just wait until he drools on you.
Nah, I think he likes you too much, says Nabil, chuckling. See? Neil is once again
drooling on Voldys shoulder, who promptly bursts out into another round of shrieking.
I will make you pay, says Voldy, gazing at Nabil with enough vehemence to make a
grown man wet his pants. As it is, Nabil hardly notices since hes laughing so hard at how Neil is
now salivating onto the hand that Voldy was using to clear the previous puddle of drool. Voldy
snaps his head towards where I sit on the other side of the row. Taj, this is officially the worst
road trip ever. This child is the vilest creature to roam the Earth, its very claustrophobic in the
back of this car, and this squished position is not doing any favors for my bum.
Well I didnt say climbing the mango tree would be easy.
YOUR METAPHOR DOESNT MAKE MY BUTT FEEL ANY BETTER.
Laughing, I say, You know, something happened to me not too long ago where I ended
up with a pair of sore buttocks.
UmmIm not sure I want to hear this story, says Nabil, causing Voldemort to
chuckle. They fist bump. I roll my eyes.
Its nothing like that, I sigh, shifting my weight to face them better. This happened to
me four years ago, in Bangladesh

***
Dont forget to bid everyone Salaam.
Mom, how can I forget if you remind me every single freaking time we ever meet
anyone? Seriously, Im not four years old anymore. I know how to behave.
Well then how come I have to always remind you?
Because you never give me a chance to say it before you remind me!
I hope youre not planning on acting this way in front of all your relatives. They havent
seen you in five years, and if they see you acting this way with your mother theyll say Oh look,
growing up in America has turned Taj into a badtameez. He doesnt know respect.
I roll my eyes. My mother does not see this, a blessing thanks to the dim lighting of the
dusty stone staircase that my mother, father, sister, and I are carefully climbing. Of course, it can
hardly be seen as a blessing considering that the source of my gratitude is a city wide blackout.
Not an altogether unexpected misfortune given the fact that in Dhaka, Bangladesh, the poor
electrical generators painstakingly cater to 15 million souls but still annoying as I stumble up
the stairs cast in an inky shadow. I mutter an unintelligible curse under my breath.
And make sure you smile, chimes in my dad, bouncing up the steps of his childhood
home. The rest of us clamber along behind, trying to forget the mildly alarming absence of a
railing to catch us should we fall.
Yes, I agree, pants my mother. Dont keep your mouth all bent down like you usually
do.
I sigh. I am used to the routine of my mother and father hammering in the proper way
for a polite Bengali kid to behave, but this is testing the limits of my patience. It is a side effect
of the nerve-racking tension that my parents face in returning home: the prospect of being judged
and scrutinized by our many relatives. For my parents and extended kin, my sister and I stand as
evidence of our parents success or failure. Practically a pilgrimage, each visit is a recurring
obligation for my parents to convince their children that they have an extended family.
But it does not feel like I am about to see family at all. How can it, with my parents
preaching the stiff formalities and customs to which I must adhere? How can it, when

apprehension rather than excitement fills me to the brim? How can it, when I feel as if I am
taking the final steps towards a trial? Sometimes I like to imagine my friends trips to see family:
the warm embraces deep within the plush fuzz of Grandmas sweater, the relentless stream of
laughter and games with cousins, and the titillating aroma of apple pie promising to bring the day
to a spectacular finish.
Here, the air is thick with the infused scent of petrol and poverty.
We arrive at the door. Or should I say the curtain? This is a performance after all. I wait
patiently in this backstage as my mother rings the doorbell. A shout of Theyre here! is
followed by a storm-like clattering of shoes. I pull on my mask and step into character as my
mother hisses one last time, Dont forget to
The door bursts open, and just as it does, all the lights crackle back to life, as if the
blackout had been part of an elaborately staged surprise party. We are swarmed in a deluge of
relatives: uncles and aunties, nephews and nieces, and cousins 1st, 2nd, 3rd and beyond, all
clamoring for a chance to greet the travelers from America. It is sheer pandemonium, and I
cannot help but feel like driftwood caught in the foaming froth of a furious river. The current of
relatives pulls me helplessly into the living room towards a luxurious tapestry depicting the
House of Allah in Mecca, under which lies a scarlet sofa.
Sofa is hardly a fitting word for it though, as sofa implies that it would be comfortable to
sit on. No, my rear end is currently perched upon a seat: a place to plant ones bum and nothing
more. As I sit, the monstrosity does absolutely nothing to cushion my weight, as if the inside is
stuffed with cement rather than springs and fluff. And with about forty sets of eyes locked upon
me, daring to recline would feel like committing a crime.
Now, from the moment we entered my mother has been prattling continuously, to the
point where none of us have managed to utter a single syllable. But now bless her soul she
barely takes a moment to breathe between sentences as she turns to me and asks, Did you bid
everyone Salaam?

I feel the first twinge of discomfort and try shifting my weight upon the sofa. I can
already envision the way Ill be hobbling about, both hands clutched to the buttocks, after this is
over. I scrunch my face into a smile. Assalaam-u-alaikum, I say, greeting everyone in the
room. The first part of the ritual is complete. Now I am to sit, smile, and field questions when
they are directed to me. Good god, I can already feel my butt starting to throb.
To its credit, the sofa is actually a thing of beauty. The frame is an ornate carving of
wood, wood that I like to believe was taken from a tree deep within the heart of an exotic jungle.
The scarlet seats and backrests are stitched with gold filigree along with a darker thread to
impress a florid pattern. Although its origins are likely not so noble, to me it appears as a lost
relic of British colonialism in Bangladesh, regal and revered. Sitting upon it, however, I am filled
with the deepest sympathy for the families depicted in the grainy, black and white portraits of
those times; I understand now that their grim expressions were due to the boils they were
sporting as a result of sitting on this godforsaken sofa. And much like my family, the sofa stands
stunning from afar while conjuring cringes up close.
Taj, calls out of one my uncles, as if to prove this point, Your mom says you read a
lot, which is good, its good. But maybe you should get out and run around, lose some of that
fat. I force a smile, despite my overwhelming desire to scowl and the snickers flitting about the
room. Given the opportunity, I would love to demonstrate just how fast and far I could run away
from here although given the developing sore on my back, my escape would start out as more
of a waddle.
Dont give him such a hard time, says his wife, graciously coming to my aid and
squishing herself next to me. Shoved over to the very edge of the sofa, I sling my arm over the
handle and lean, attempting to find some form of respite for my desperate derriere. Hes
slimmed down considerably from the last time we saw him. But, she exclaims, taking a firm
grasp of both my cheeks like clips to a car battery, These are just as red and cute and pudgy as

they used to be. She giggles and massages my cheeks about while my elbow is crushed into the
stoic arm of the sofa. I wince. It appears I am not destined to find salvation anywhere.
Im just saying, the boy could lose a few kilos.
Oh stop it.
No.
The room falls to a hush, and it takes me a second to realize that that last word sprang
from my own lips. But compelled by a mixture of the pain coursing through my buttocks and a
spontaneous sense of rebellion, a smile stretches across my face and I continue, No its okay
Auntie. Uncle is right. I should exercise more. And who knows, maybe after working really hard,
I can be as fit as Uncle. Just look at him! He should star in Bollywood movies!
Every pair of eyes in the room looks at me, then at my uncle, and then fixates upon
Uncles enormous potbelly. From the other side of the sofa, I can just make out the sound of my
mother mentally slapping herself. Finally, Uncle himself slowly peers down at the mountainous
rotunda protruding from his middle.
Then he bursts into laughter, and within seconds the entire room is filled with the raucous
roar of my relatives. Somewhere within the commotion, I sense my mother slowly joining in the
laughter, no doubt having spent the last minute breathless and frozen in fear. My uncle shakes his
finger at me as he chortles.
Victorious, I allow myself to relax by reclining into the sofa.
And lo and behold, away from the perch at the edge of the seat, I find myself sinking into
a cloudy cushion. Waves of relief roll through my body and I chuckle. Patting the seat, I run my
hand fondly over the wooden arm. Opening nights are full of surprises.
***
The baby is wailing.
Way to go Taj, your story upset the wee babe! Voldemort tries shouting over the
deafening cries of Neil. This is probably the most honest critique of your work youll ever get,
so listen closely! He points to Neil who as if on cue begins screaming even harder.

I was actually kind of proud of that one My sad murmurs are lost within Neils vocal
rendition of the score to Inception; the famous repetition of one note in this case threatens to
obliterate the ears of everyone caught in its blare.
Cant you make it shut up? Voldy whines to Nabil.
Youre the wizard, why dont you? Nabil yells back.
Avada
NO VOLDY DONT KILL HIM!!
What? He told me to shut him up using magic!
Yes, doing tricks! Magic tricks!
Voldemort roars, Sure, Ill just pull a rabbit out of my fedora! Or better yet, Ill make
some magic beans appear and He pauses as the cogs within his mind start spinning, and then
he reaches into the inner pocket of his suit and pulls out a small bag. Actually, he says, turning
to Neil while opening the bag, You want some beans? He pours out a pile of jelly beans into
his palm.
Not wasting any time, Voldy pinches a bean between two of his spidery fingers and sticks
it into Neils mouth. No one is more surprised by this intrusion than Neil, who immediately stops
crying and begins chewing, confusion plastered on his face. We hold our breath as the flavor of
the jelly bean diffuses in his mouth until...
Neil smiles and begins laughing, and we all sigh in relief. I can feel my ears throbbing.
Voldy, I have to hand it to you. You saved the day.
The Dark Lord chuckles as Neil extends a pudgy hand towards the jelly beans in his
palm, asking for more. Hes actually quite charming. Perhaps hes not so bad for a child, he
says.
Id like a jelly bean too Mr. Voldemort, says Nabil, peering at the brightly colored
bunch.
Voldy smirks. I wouldnt if I were you. These are Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans. And
trust me, they mean every flavor, he says, as he affectionately gives Neil another one. They
have everything from strawberry to mildew. This revelation slowly sinks in, and when it hits,
we all whirl around to look at Neil; but its too late.
He bites the jelly bean.

An expression of confusion tinged with horror spreads across his face.

His little head turns to Voldemort.
Their eyes lock. His bulbous cheeks, two dabs of the setting sun, bulge ominously.
Voldys death stares him in the face, yet Neils three year old charm makes it difficult to not find
him absolutely adorable. Doesnt the cobra lure its victims with its dance, just before it strikes?
Voldy raises his finger. Look little munchkin, youre really cute. But I swear to God, if
you do this Trailing off, he knows that it will do him no good: apocalypse is imminent. We all
brace for the impact.
But miraculously at the last second, Neil mercifully turns his head and throws up all over
his brother.
Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
The car comes to a grating halt.
We waste no time in abandoning the site of nuclear fallout. My cousin, suffering from the
shock of being shot, bursts out from the car. My aunt, uncle, Voldy, and I spill out after him with
no desire to be left behind among the noxious fumes of most-likely-mildew-flavored-thrown-up
jelly bean.
The scene outside is sheer pandemonium. Nabil runs around the car, screaming as if hes
been doused in acid (which, technically, he has). And to make matters worse, Voldy rushes up to
Nabil, cackling and screaming, I told you I would make you pay! But his moment of triumph
is cut short as my aunt thrusts Neil into his arms so that she can dive into the car to clean the
blast zone.
Pinching my nose, I call back, It looks like youve all got everything under control, so
Ill just get out of your way. I stumble away, my vision hazy from exposure to the chemical
weaponry. Coming to the steel barrier lining the side of the highway, I suck in an enormous
breath of fresh air. Gradually my vision clears to reveal the open, starry night. And then I freeze,
enraptured by the dream before me. Wow.

I know! Its all over my pants! shrieks my cousin, dancing around as his father attempts
to wipe him down. From within Voldys arms, the baby claps his hands and giggles,
unsympathetic to the horror he has wrought.
None of this is registering in my mind though, as I continue to gaze at the vision beyond
the barrier. At first glance, the scenery before me appeared so picturesque, I was struck by the
crazy notion that it was actually a colossal oil-pastel painting. Pines rim the edge of the canvas,
tall and hearty in girth. Silhouetted against the rich navy blue of the sky, the features of the trees
remain indiscernible, giving the forest an aura of mystery. Between me and the forest stretches a
plain. I cannot see if grasses or reeds or a pond lie within, for napping above it in a thick, milky
patina is a blanket of fog. It is not merely a cloud, content to sit in one place lifeless and still. No,
this fog is alive. It roils and folds, catching and playing with the light of the moon and the stars.
It is not flat, in neither color nor dimension; it is a shining and opaque apparition, a spirit not of
this world.
Magical. What else can I call what lies before me? This is a scene stripped straight from
fantasy (and incredibly identical to Mary GrandPres book jacket artwork from Harry Potter and
the Prisoner of Azkaban). The more I stare, the more I begin to imagine the wonders that could
be found within. Was that an Ent, a shepherd of the forest, ambling along within the depths of
Fanghorn Forest? Maybe if I ventured in, I would come across the indigenous centaurs and
unicorns of the Forbidden Forest. And what was stopping a witch from constructing a
gingerbread house within, or any number of Grimm fairy tale folk for that matter?
Oh my God! My cousins voice shakes me from my reverie. Amused, I inspect his
poorly chosen white trousers.
Thats a good look for you man. Theres nothing like a yellow-green stain on your
crotch to attract all the ladies.
Shut up, he says, but smiles nonetheless. Were staying here for a bit. Theyre going
to try and feed Neil. Theyre worried because his stomach is all empty now.

Well thats just wonderful. Any chance Voldemort has a baby food flavored jelly bean?
Wouldnt risk it.
We fall silent, and natures tranquil symphony fades in. The punctuated staccatos of the
crickets accompany the flowing legato of a stream somewhere off in the woods. On harmony, the
wind plays the leaves and the bushes while the lonely owl coos in syncopation. And if I stretch
my imagination just far enough, I can hear the ting, ting, ting of the stars playing the triangle.
The highway howls behind us.
God, this is something else, isnt it? I inhale another luxuriously long breath of the
fresh air, damp and earthy.
Yeah its unbelievable. Its crusting up. And oh god its actually changing color! My
cousin pokes the nasty looking stain through the inside of his pocket, as if encouraging it to
sprout a pair of wings and fly away.
No, I mean, all of this right here. Its so beautiful. We drive all the way to national parks
and stuff, never realizing what were missing along the way. Its ironic.
He gives me a look. Well, I can see youre making the most of your pot-smoking rights
as a Washington resident.
Narrowing my eyes, I say, Im not high. And Im serious. We treat all of this like its
some kind of decoration to the highway, like its all been planted here for our benefit. We like to
think that the world revolves around us, but this interstate is just another scar weve burned onto
the face of a world that hardly knows were here. Look at the fog, the trees, the moon and the
stars. Were just pinpricks in the presence of giants.
I turn to him to gauge his thoughts on this, but am surprised to find that theres no one
beside me. Spinning around, I look back to the car. The white pants glowing bright in the
moonlight, my cousin heads back to the car. Even from this distance, I can hear him say, Taj is
being dramatic again. He does this weird thing where he pretends hes monologuing in a movie
or something. His parents shake their heads in pity, but hastily smile when they catch me staring
at them. They wave their arms, beckoning for me to return to the car.

Sighing, I take one final appreciative glance at the beauty beyond the barrier, and then
turn around. Even through my shoes, the first step onto the asphalt feels harsh and unwelcoming
compared to the shy patches of grass lingering about the rails on the highways edge. Despite the
darkness, I can make out the details of the road. Millions of miniscule cracks decorate the surface
like veins. In between, the remains of our vices rest: cigarette butts, candy wrappers, cards, and
coffee cups. Our great achievement, tearing through the land, is held together in a futile effort
with trash. Garbage lies atop garbage. This road is old, ten or twenty years, faded and gray and in
need of repaving. This land behind me is older still, hundreds, thousands, millions of years, lush
and green and blissfully content to go nowhere.
But somewhere I must go. Already the baby is crying again. He aches to move on, yearns
to build, to destroy, to simply do, while mostly he itches of boredom. His brother is already
plugging in his headphones, keeping at bay this ancient disease. The massive SUV just another
symptom roars to life and belches smoke, hostile and threatening in all its sleek, shiny, and
silvery glory. In a few years it will be rusted and cold and lifeless. Garbage lies atop garbage.
I pry the door open and take one more breath before I have to plunge into the belly of the
beast. I know I will never see this place again. At seventy miles per hour, our eyes can only
process so many frames per second. One blink is all it takes for this place to never have existed
at all.
From within the darkness of the SUV, I see Voldemorts crimson eyes glinting back at
me. Perhaps hes right; people do make places what they are. Perhaps whatever Hawaii once was
is now buried under layers of manufactured landscape, forgotten in the name of manufactured
happiness, and dead at the hands of manufactured citizens.
Stepping inside, I reluctantly take my seat next to my baby cousin. He is chirping
amiably, prodding me to play on the iPad with him, which I gently refuse (after seeing it caught
in the line of fire, I realize why the screen has always seemed so sticky whenever I played with

him). One more desperate breath, and then I shut the door. But just before it closes, I glimpse the
greenish glint of a blade of grass emerging through a crack upon the road.
A tiny emerald spark of life.
The tree.
Hawaii lives on. The real Hawaii.
The boy.
And where Im taking them, that life is a bonfire.
The climb.
***
Fifteen minutes east of Honolulu, my uncle pulls the car off of the H-1 and towards a
vista point perched upon the edge of a cliff. We all step out and drink in the magnificent sight
beyond. The ocean lies before us like a blanket of sapphire, stretching out to meet the opaque
silhouette of Molokai off in the distance, and then rushing past even that towards infinity.
From my side, I hear a derisive snort. Its such a stunning view. Naturally on an island
its so difficult to catch a glimpse of the ocean.
I smack Voldys arm. This isnt what were here for.
Is that so? I climbed the mango tree with you. So where are my mangoes?
Chuckling, I say, Well, if you go to all the trouble of climbing a tree and just get a
mango, youre missing out on half the fun. For the mango to be extra special, you need
something more.
Youre speaking in riddles.
Smiling, I say, Ill finish my story from earlier, and maybe this will make more sense.
***
After the laughter had subsided in the living room, the evening rapidly diminished into a
series of questions regarding school, school, and more school. A highlight of the night was the
shock I gave my relatives from saying I was Number 26 in my class (they were inquiring about
my GPA rank compared to the other students while I answered my alphabetical place), which I
hastily clarified to put them all at ease although the fact that I made the mistake at all didnt
exactly help my case.
Now, however, the conversation is at a standstill as far as my sister and I are concerned,
because really, after the Do Well in School and Make your Family Proud lecture, my uncles
and aunts have nothing else relatable to talk to me about (unless its another jibe about my

weight). Realizing this, all the children in the room are mercifully shooed out so that the adults
can discuss the politics of family and nation: in other words, gossip.
That was so boss! my cousin, Alif, exclaims when we step out from the living room.
The way you stood up to Dad was awesome! Six or seven years younger than myself, Alif is
the youngest member of our entire family. His boisterous energy and open-eyed wonder at the
world reminds me of what I was like when I first came here: thrust into the loving arms of
family, the sights and smells oversaturated my childish perception of the world, like stepping into
the sun after spending days within a dark cave. The world was a much simpler place when a
package of chips and a chilled bottle of RC Cola could convince me Bangladesh was the most
spectacular place on the planet. Gazing out the window now, my vision washing over the endless
sprawl of lights and dull grey heaps of concrete, I resist the urge to snort; ironic, no, the
blindness of open-eyed wonder?
But I clasp my hand onto Alifs shoulder nonetheless and grin. Before I can speak,
however, a sniff cuts through the air. Youre just lucky that everyone thinks youre funny.
Alifs older sister, Meem, steps towards us and says, Although were all a little surprised you
can actually speak Bangla.
Smiling, I meet her eyes and retort, Shocking isnt it, being bilingual? Im chubby
Meem, not stupid.
If you say soNumber 26, she says, a smile spreading across her lips. But she is
merely flexing the muscles in her cheeks and nothing more. The flinty glint in her eyes confirms
it; she thinks Im soft, a pampered prince living luxuriously. We both know its unfair for her to
resent me because out of all his siblings, my dad alone put in the effort to escape to America, but
she cant hide it. The anger is subtle, but I know where it lurks. Each time she sees me and
stiffens, the anger rests on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. Each time she hears her mother
talking about me and she shudders, the anger embraces her, steadies her, and brings her deeper

into its arms. And Im sure that as everyone in that living room laughed at my joke, her jaw was
clenched and her heart was pounding as the anger sunk its claws into her chest and slowly fed
her its poison.
I know all this because she and I are the same: we both wear masks.
Alif tugs at my sleeve. Dont mind her. Shes probably just acting this way because she
likes you. He winks devilishly and begins dancing circles around his sister in a rousing fashion
that only a pudgy eleven year old boy who watches far too many Bollywood films is capable of.
Ew Alif, thats gross! Were cousins! Meem shrieks, batting him away from her. Im
just as repulsed by the idea as she is, but I cant help but laugh at Alifs antics.
Alif freezes and his eyebrows furrow as he ponders. HeyMom and Dad are cousins
arent they? The meek and nave way in which he says it would make any number of girls go
Aww, but the implications in our current context are enough to have Meem and I grimace and
slowly shuffle away from each other.
Oblivious to all this, Alif seizes my shirt again. Its boring here, lets go to my house. I
have lots of games on the computer!
I glance back into the living room towards the scarlet sofa where my parents still talk. I
dont know Alif, I dont think my mom or dad would want me going anywhere.
Oh come on, its just down the street!
Yeah I know, but still
Meem snorts. Scared your parents are going to scold you?
What? No!
Then lets go, whines Alif.
UhI just
Come on Alif, Meem says, putting an arm around her brother and dragging him
towards the door. He cant go anywhere without his parents, dont you know? Hes from
America. And that fine piece of logic seals my fate as they both disappear through the door and
down the dusty stone staircase.
My eyes flit from the stairs to the living room where my parents continue to chat. Alif is
too young to understand, and Meemas long as she harbors that resentment, shell never know
the weight of my privilege. Shell never know what its like to have a leash around her neck, to

have her hopes and dreams manacled to an ideal set by our culture. Shell never know the
anxiety of simply walking down the street to her cousins house would induce, in the fear of
disappointing her parents.
I turn away from the stairs to head back to the living room in defeat. But as I pass the
table in the dining room, I spot a familiar emerald green plastic package and a tall glass bottle
labeled with two letters in a signature design: RC. A thousand images from my childhood flash
before me: sunlight filtering into the living room, geckos scurrying along the walls, and the
laughter, all the laughter, as Meem and I tried catching one.
What am I doing?
Excitement courses through my veins. Dont I always complain about how much I hate
coming here because all we ever do is visit family and go through the same motions and never
actually vacation while on vacation?
I pull at the leash. I shake the shackles. I walk away from my parents.
Hey wait for me!
By the time I get outside however, Alif and Meem are long gone. Admittedly, my
adventure high has subsided somewhat, and given my surroundings, I have no intention of
barreling after them. Flanked on both sides by concrete buildings on one side and a wall on the
other the uneven gravel road is cast in an eerie shadow. Not a single soul stirs in sight. Fearful
thoughts begin surfacing as I remember that Bangladesh is a third-world nation, riddled with
rapists and muggers and people who would show no mercy to a lost kid from America.
This settles it for me, and I backtrack towards home. Before I enter the family building
however, I take a moment to appreciate my surroundings in its relative safety (I really dont want
my grand adventure to end so soon), knowing that I can rush within if I see anyone suspicious.
The building before me allows very little to appreciate though, in all its dull and concrete glory.
The structure cramped with apartments is identical to every other one on the street, and I take
no pride in knowing that my family owns it.

I do, however, appreciate that my uncles and aunts decided not to do anything with the
empty lot next to our building. Fenced off and maintained as a garden, this small patch of earth is
a feeble reminder that before Bangladesh was layered with manufactured landscape, its land was
fertile and flowing. And now, basking in the moonlight, the lush green carpet beckons me
towards it.
Stepping through the gate, I make my way into the darkness. The soft padding of wholly
natural grass (completely different from the lawns we cultivate in America) is a welcome respite
from the hard road. In the middle of the garden, a mango tree bursts towards the heavens. I
realize now that its the tree I would always see from inside the building. Smiling, I press my
palm against the warm bark. Im glad that I finally came to see it.
Ive heard of tree huggers, but I never thought Id see someone petting a tree.
I shriek in surprise (in a pitch high enough to qualify me as a soprano), the sound piercing
the calm night air and echoing through the neighborhood. I spin around to locate the source of
the call, but there is no one near the base of the tree.
Up here you chagol!
Ignoring the fact that I was just derisively called a goat, I peer up through the boughs and
am startled to see a figure perched above. From afar I can somewhat make out that he is a boy
around my age, dressed in a simple white t-shirt and the common Bangladeshi bottom for men
called a lungi (which is simply an ankle length skirt, and yes, very manly).
What are you doing up there? I ask, thanking God that its too dark to look up his skirt.
Oh you know, nothing feels better than a rough wooden log between my legs, he calls
down.
Really?
No, not really! he exclaims, his voice cracking in anger. I was chased up here by some
of the boys down the street. Are they still around?
I survey the area and shake my head. Nope, no one here.
He sighs in relief. Great. Thats the last time I call anyone a chagol.
Well, you kind of just called me a
The joke is on them though. They chased me up a mango tree he says, roaring in
laughter. You know what that means? Free mangoes!

I sigh. A mango sounds nice right about now.

The boy bends down in his nest. You look like youve had a rough day. Why dont you
come up here and join me? I cant eat all these mangoes by myself!
I scratch my head. Couldnt you just toss one down?
I could, but you seem like a nice guy so I wouldnt want to cheat you.
Whats that supposed to mean?
Well, think about it. If you wait for a mango to be given to you, itll be under ripe or just
okay or even rotten because lets face it, whoevers picking the mango is going to take the best
for himself. But if you want the mango of your dreams, you have to climb the tree and pick it
yourself.
I guess that makes sense... I say, trailing off. My head turns towards the family
building, to the light in the living room, to where I know my parents could be watching. I look
back at the boy. No, I cant do it.
Wow. Youre soft, he says, tutting loudly for my benefit. If I didnt know any better,
Id say youre from America.
Hey!
Oh you actually are? He grins. Im sorry, I wasnt aware you were royalty. Shall I
summon the servants, your majesty, to carry you up?
Come on man, Im not like that, I protest, but my voice falters.
Okay, prove it.
No, its not about that. Its justIm scared.
Scared of what? Falling? Its not even that high!
NoIm I hesitate for a moment, but I realize I have nothing to lose from speaking
my mind to a complete stranger. Im scared of my parents. I dont want to disobey them.
The boy in the tree is silent, and I just know that hes judging me. But before I can make
an embarrassed run for the house, he says, Your parents arent gravity; theyre not holding you
down. Only you are. It seems like youre overthinking things, when all you have to do is answer
a simple question: do you want a mango?
Yes, but
So climb the tree goddamn it! Come get the mango!
And so I do.
I dont look back at living room light.
I untie the leash.
I break the shackles.

I climb.
When I reach him, he extends his hand and grabbing it, I clamber up into his nest. He
pats my shoulder as I lean back against the trunk and breathe. The night air ruffles my hair, the
heavenly aroma of mangoes surrounds me, and as I drink in the brilliant sea of lights stretching
out beyond me, I feel it, just like I used to: wide-eyed wonder. If only Id known that by wearing
the mask, I was blinding myself all this time.
Th-th-thank you, I say, turning to the boy.
Dont thank me, he says, smiling. Im struck by his modesty, but then he says, I
already ate all the good mangoes, so umyeahthis is awkward.
I shake my head and laugh. No I mean, thanks for getting me up here. All this, I say,
gesturing to life: the mangoes, the branches above, the moon and the stars higher still, and the
green grass resting below, This is what Ive always wanted to see and feel. This is the adventure
Ive been craving. And I realize now that Ive been unfair to my family. I came to Bangladesh
with a cynical attitude, thinking they were holding me back, when really it was my fault all
along. People through their perceptions make places what they are.
The boy smiles and nods his head once, twice, three times, and then says, Bhai, youve
lost me. I thought this was about mangoes. I open my mouth to respond, but just as I do, a shout
blasts through the night air.
Taj?! TAJ! Hey Dad, Meem, look! Taj is up in that tree!
Alifs shouts jerk me away from my thoughts and I peer down in the dark to where his
small frame jumps up and down. I see the outline of my uncle waddling over, his potbelly even
in the darkness visibly bouncing up and down. Behind him, Meem follows cautiously.
How did you get up there? my uncle shouts, in what I recognize for the first time as a
jovial, good-natured tone, and not a jibe.
I climbed up all by myself, I say smiling, and am surprised to find that the expression
comes naturally, not forced. Im actually happy to see Alif and Meem and even my uncle. How
did you guys find me?

We heard a girl screaming so we figured it was you, says Meem, but I can see she is
relieved to see me safe. I laugh and begin climbing down, and as Alif begins dancing again and
my uncle calls home to tell everyone Im alright, I hasten my descent: I want to be with my
family.
Upon reaching the ground however, I realize that Ive forgotten about the boy and I
glance back up into the branches. The branches however, swaying in the warm, gentle breeze, are
empty. No one sits above. Perhaps no one ever did.
But before I can walk away, a mango falls from above and I catch it.
I smile.
Its a good one.
***
My god man, says Voldemort, You hallucinated a conversation? What the hell was in
those mangoes, LSD?!
No, I sigh, I think he just didnt want to get caught by my uncle who owns the tree,
you know, since he was mooching off our mangoes? But thats not the point, because
metaphorically
Enough with the metaphors Taj! Just get to the point!
Okay, geez, I say, raising my hands. The point is: perception. Look, I agree with you
that people make places what they are. Ive seen the horrors that come because of it. But we
cant be as narrow-sighted as they are. If you want to find what youre looking for, you have to
look past the ignorance, past the horrors, and past the manufactured lives they lead. Perception.
Voldemort guffaws. And how do you suggest we find perception Confucius?
Gesturing to the stone wall that keeps the tourists from venturing beyond towards the cliff
face, I say, Climb. Ignoring the Do not go beyond this Point sign, we head towards the edge.
I gesture to what lies beneath, an invisible sight to those standing behind the wall. This is the
real Hawaii, I say.
Twenty feet below us sits a geological city filled with alien architecture. Miniature
canyons cut through rock, formed by rivers of lava flowing towards the ocean so many eons ago.
An organic skating rink, the smooth and curvaceous forms below are not random rocks of nature,

but the sculptures of an artist. Twisting and turning, the curiously shaped outcrops extend fifty
feet past where we stand now, all the way up to a sheer cliff face that plummets down to the
raging ocean below.
Climbing down, I motion for him to follow me beyond, to leave the manufactured
behind. The ground slopes down towards the ocean, and we pass through the canyons, our faces
shining with awe. The walls of rock appear streaked and layered, as if some being had taken an
enormous paint brush and stroked the earth. As we head to the precipice, the roar of the ocean
elevates from loud to deafening.
We meander through the maze of canyons and finally reach the edge. We sit. Behind us, a
colossal overhang of rock caves into the cliff, shielding us from the view of the cars and the
highway and any other semblance of civilization. In the backdrop stands a mountain, cast in
autumn gold by the sun. Below our dangling feet the ocean furiously crashes against the cliff,
bursting into towers of white and showering us with spray. Each impact stirs the ground and fills
the air with such thunder that it feels like were in a warzone. The raw power surrounding us is
terrifying; terrifying because what could be our deaths is so unequivocally beautiful.
Hey Taj.
Yes my Dark Friend?
Mahalo.
I turn to him, astounded. I never would have imagined that a man who split his soul into
seven parts, murdered his family, and spent the majority of seven years terrorizing a kid could
ever muster a hint of compassion. Voldy, I
Mahalo? he says once more, cutting me off.
Yeah, I get it. Youre thanking me.
Oh, thats what it means? Ive been trying to figure it out ever since that waitress said
it.
As he cackles, I sigh, Just when I thought we were having a moment.