The Shade of the Mulberry Tree

I had been going from house to house in the city of lights — Karachi — for eight months. I would leave the village in the morning and return only when darkness fell.

One evening, as usual, when I came back to the village, two of my friends had already arrived. I lay down on my bed, exhausted. I had barely caught my breath when my phone rang. I looked at the screen — it was my father calling.

After some casual greetings, my father said,

“Yes, so-and-so has come again. He wants to marry his sister. This time he seems very serious. What should I do?”

After thinking for a while, I replied,

“Alright. He’ll eventually want to get married, so go ahead and fix a date. I’ll arrange the money so I can come to the village by midnight.”

Two or three days later, Meehan and my younger brothers bought some gold bangles and ornaments for the bride and set off toward the village. As we passed through Khalir Pusht, water was flowing from a tank, and by the grace and mercy of God, rain from Mardan blessed us along the way.

From Mardan, I continued toward the village. When I reached the village gate, it was around two o’clock in the afternoon. It was midsummer; not even a single mosquito could be seen. From that stop, our village lay four miles to the north along a level road.

I thought for a moment that if any villagers or acquaintances came by, I could ride along with them on a motorcycle. But no one came. When I reached home, it was already late afternoon, and due to the rain, no one was outside.

I tied my shoelaces around my neck, dipped my hands in the nearby pump, poured the water over my head, drank a little, slung my bag over my shoulder, and started walking straight toward the village. As I walked, I kept glancing back and forth, thinking, “Who might appear on this lonely road?” But no one came.

To shorten my path, I walked under the shade of the trees. On the way, I saw mirages trembling in the distance. When I reached halfway, a human figure appeared through the shimmer. I wiped my eyes and looked carefully — a young woman was sitting alone in the shade of a tree, looking at me curiously.

I looked around — there was no one else. All around were mirages, green crops, and trees filled with birds fluttering about. I wondered what this young woman was doing alone in such a quiet and fragrant place. She seemed unafraid of the wind.

When I reached her, she greeted me.

“Where have you come from?” she asked.

“I’m a traveler,” I said. “I’ve come from Karachi.”

She smiled.

“I came out to the fields today,” she said. “It got hot, so I sat under this tree for a while.”

I told her, “I stopped here to rest and escape the heat too. But I’m surprised to see you alone here. Our elders say this place is sacred — haunted even. They claim spirits dwell here, and no woman dares stay long.”

She laughed softly.

“That’s just talk,” she said. “Perhaps I’m braver than most men.”

I smiled and said, “Then I’ll go ahead. You should head home before it gets late.”

She rose quickly.

“I’ll walk with you,” she said playfully. “You’ve mentioned ghosts — now I’ll make sure you’re the one who gets scared.”

I laughed. “But this isn’t my village. If anyone sees us, they’ll misunderstand.”

She laughed again.

“You’re too simple. Who’s going to see us here?”

Before I could reply, she gently took my hand.

“Now do you believe I’m human like you?” she asked with a mischievous smile.

We walked on together. After some silence, I asked, “What’s your name?”

“Sarah,” she said. “And yours?”

“Zaman.”

We laughed. Our steps matched easily, and soon the distance between us and her home grew short.

When we reached a small house at the edge of the road, she pointed ahead.

“That’s my house,” she said.

It stood lonely and silent among tall bushes beside the wide road. I had never seen it before, even though I knew every house in this village. My heart felt uneasy.

Still, Sarah smiled and invited me in. I hesitated. “No, no — I should go. What will your elders say if they see a stranger?”

“My elders aren’t home,” she said softly.

Before I knew it, she had taken my hand again and led me inside.

The house was cool and quiet. She handed me a jug of cold water. I drank and looked around — the place felt both real and unreal. Sarah kept smiling.

Then she asked,

“How long have you been here, Zaman?”

I smiled. “Eight months — in Karachi.”

She laughed.

“I’ve been a stranger for fifty years,” she said. “After I closed my eyes, no one came here again — except my cousin.”

Her words struck me like lightning. I turned quickly — and saw my cousin on the riverbank, carrying a shovel over his shoulder. Muddy water trickled down as he smiled at me.

I looked back — the house, Sarah — everything had vanished.

I was sitting under the shadow of the old mulberry tree, beside the melon field of my cousin, my clothes damp with soil and rain.