The Mango Grove Lament

Every summer, I traveled with my family to my grandparents’ home in a small town in the eastern part of the country, famous for its orchards of sweet, golden mangoes. But last year, the visit left a mark I will never erase.

My cousins and friends there whispered about a strange unease that had settled over the town after dusk. Once lively with evening strolls and chatter, the streets now emptied by twilight. They spoke of a woman who appeared at midnight, always near the old banyan tree that stood at the edge of the grove. She wore a white sari, her hair dripping wet as if she had just stepped out of a river. She would roam the empty lanes, then stop before the house of a holy man who lived nearby, and sit on the ground, weeping and sniffing until dawn. My friend Meera claimed she had heard the cries herself, and she swore they were not of this world.

One evening, curiosity got the better of me. I told my grandmother I was going to meet friends, but instead, I hid behind a stack of crates near the banyan tree, waiting. The air was thick with the scent of ripe mangoes, but a chill crept up my spine as the moon rose high. At around midnight, I heard a soft sobbing, barely a whisper, growing louder. I saw her emerge from behind the tree – a figure in a pale sari, her long hair clinging to her face and shoulders, water dripping and forming a dark trail on the dusty ground. She moved with an eerie grace, her feet not quite touching the earth, and made her way to the holy man’s hut, a humble dwelling with a torn curtain for a door. She knelt there, her shoulders shaking with grief, and keened a wordless melody that seemed to echo the pain of the world.

I was frozen, my heart pounding. For what felt like hours, I listened, transfixed. Then, as the first hint of dawn grayed the sky, she rose, turned, and looked directly at my hiding spot. Her eyes were hollow pits, and her mouth opened as if to scream, but only a soft sigh escaped. She dissolved into mist, leaving behind a single, dripping strand of hair on the ground. I stumbled back to my grandparents’ house, my mind reeling.

The next morning, I confronted the holy man, whose name was Guruji. He was an old, weathered man with kind eyes. I asked him about the woman. He sighed and told me a story: years ago, a young woman had loved a man from this town, but their families had forbidden the match. She drowned herself in the river during the monsoon, and her spirit could not rest. She was searching for her lost love, and the banyan tree was where they used to meet. Guruji said she did not mean harm, but her sorrow was so deep that it soaked into the town itself, making people uneasy.

That summer, I left early, my dreams plagued by her weeping. I have not returned since. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the banyan tree, and I hear the faint sound of crying, carried on the wind, a lament for a love that never was, and a soul that cannot find peace.