The mango stories (II): oh shit!

One such summer afternoon, lying on the huge 'cot'-swing from the mango tree, we started telling stories.
Ghost stories.
Afternoon ghost stories.
Afternoon ghost who lived on a mango tree stories.

I could feel goosebumps on my arms but I was determined to show how I feared nothing and that I had grown up and the rest were (hah!) kiddos. However, side-by-side, our post-lunch-kacchi'ambi'-rocksalt-desert-session continued. Hours passed. Surrounding our mango yard were empty dirt fields blackened by the pwdered ash of the recently burned wheat chaff, cracked and withered, and burning setting of heat waves generating imaginary figures as our eyes surfed on the surface. However the ghost stories frightened us enough so as to see figures at the horizon amongst those waves. As if somebody stood onlooking our session, as if or stories had summoned him, and as if his whole body waved with heat except his eyes which stood still.
We saw the figures from our stories.

Meanwhile the mango began to show its affect. We had to loosen up(if you know what i mean...)
Since the surrounding fields were all empty, we mutually decided to climb up one tree each and discharge our feaces (to shit) from up above the branch so high. Mango trees have thick enough branches for you to lay down lest sit in a 'tatti' pose, and the leaves dense enough to hide your being.

While I was trying too hard to overcome my psychological difficulties while "sitting on a branch" for "shitting from a branch" I heard thuds and splashes! Yes, the others had succeded in testing gravity! Which meant they had started with the job assigned to them. Which meant they would finish it before me. Which meant they would come down before me. Which meant..."oh no!" I thought. There! I had my first dropping. I felt like a pigeon.