My garden

“If I catch you boys, I will give you to the police,” the old man said.

He stood at the porch, and never stepped out. Perhaps he was afraid of us, teenage boys swarming all over his garden. Though it would have been unthinkable back then that a grown-up could be panicked by kids. In hindsight, he wasn’t old either; maybe he was middle-aged. His movements were slow, and he wore a blue checked lungi that he wrapped above his navel. His tummy, wrinkles and stretch marks encircling it, protruded out and contrasted with the stick-like hands and legs he had.

“I have already called the police, just you all wait there,” he said and closed the door.

The police never came. But, twenty-five years ago, if it were me in place of that old man, I would have shot those boys down to protect my garden.