The Papaya Tree: a little jaunt into magical realism (includes childish scribbles)

The papaya tree had carved its way inside through the water pipes that lined the perimeter of the house. Intertwined twigs, leaves and the occasional papaya blossom sprigged from the cool porcelain sink basin in the bathroom. When you lifted the toilet lid you were confronted by a proud little offspring tree offering you green fleshed and sour tasting papaya. Ants crawled up the bark carrying their eggs protectively, building an empire in the foetal outstretched branches. Whenever Aunty or Kalpesh or Nikita emptied their bladders, their waste nourished the growth of this tree. It became something sacred; it was their family tree.

Soon the branches grew so wild that they twisted across the ceiling, down the four walls and curled back along the floor. The papayas hanging on the tree limbs grew orange and then a deep red. They were so pregnant with juice that they overflowed. Aunty mopped the floor twice a day, but the papayas dripped endlessly like lactating cows. The bathroom tiles were always sticky. When he was sure Aunty was not watching, Kalpesh got down on his hands and knees and licked the tiles. They were the most delicious, sweet bathroom tiles he had ever tasted. 

 

Little Nikita became too afraid to go into the bathroom. She thought that the branches were trying to strangle her, and the sticky floor was trying to root her there, like the tree, so that it could swallow her into the house forever.

Over time, the gummy bathroom tiles became a vast ant graveyard. The ants that marched along the porcelain bathroom fixtures found themselves abruptly crucified to the floor, coated and drowned in sweet, sugary papaya glue. Kalpesh stopped licking the tiles as he didn’t feel like tasting corpses.

Aunty also became afraid. The ceiling was starting to crack where branches forced their way towards the sky. Chunks of plaster crumbled and the sun shone through into the house.  

The family grew frightened of the power of their sacred tree. They had emptied themselves into its branches, allowing its thirsty roots to drink all that it could from their bodies. Now they starved the tree. They emptied their bladders into buckets and saucepans and bowls.

Aunty borrowed an axe from the neighbour and hacked the tree to pieces early one morning. When the work was done, she nailed the toilet lid shut. She plastered over the sink. She mopped her brow and then she nailed the bathroom door closed forever. When she went to wake the children they were gone. Nothing but putrid papaya juice saturated their beds, in place of where they had been sleeping.