The Mango Tree

The old mango tree in the courtyard stood tall, its wide branches casting shade over the ancestral home.

- by Jyoti Mehta

For nearly two centuries, it had silently witnessed the lives of the Sharma family—births, weddings, festivals, and farewells. Children once climbed it, elders leaned against it, and travelers were greeted by its fruit in summer.

One late September evening, Aarav sat beneath the tree, watching the sky melt into gold. His father’s words returned to him, “Never forget your roots, son. They will keep you grounded when the winds of change blow too strong.”

At twenty-eight, Aarav had just returned from London with a master's degree and a coveted job offer in New York. Success and independence awaited him, yet here he was—back in the courtyard of his ancestors, surrounded by memories, traditions, and expectations.

The Sharma household was known for preserving its rituals. Every Diwali, hundreds of diyas lit the courtyard. Every wedding was celebrated as a community affair, bound by customs passed down through generations. His grandmother, the family's quiet guardian, often reminded him, “We are like this mango tree. Our roots go deep into the soil of our culture. Without them, we would wither.”

As a child, Aarav had listened wide-eyed to her tales: how their great-great-grandfather had planted this very tree, how decisions of the family were once taken in its shade, how festivals were incomplete without gathering around it. To him, the roots of the tree and the roots of the family were one.