The Mango Thief’s Bargain

My father, Arun, grew up in the dusty village of Barabanki, where the summer heat cracked the earth and the mango orchards were the only source of life and mischief. He was a wiry, restless boy, always chasing the wind or climbing the tallest trees, much to my grandmother’s despair. His one true love was mangoes, and he would do anything for a taste of the sweet, golden fruit. So when the first storm of the season rolled in, howling through the shuttered windows and rattling the tin roof, he was already on his feet, sack in hand, before the rain even started.

The storm was a proper ‘andhi’, a violent gust of wind that tore through the orchards, ripping mangoes from their branches like an angry god shaking the trees. Arun slipped out of the house, the door moaning behind him, and ran towards the grove that lay beyond the village, past the old well that the children whispered was bottomless. The night was a chaos of swaying branches and flying leaves, and the mangoes hit the ground with a soft thud, inviting him to gather them. He filled his sack quickly, laughing with the thrill of it, but then he heard something odd beneath the storm’s roar: a sound of mangoes falling, but not in the usual patter. It was a rhythmic, almost deliberate drop, as if something was plucking them one by one and letting them fall.

Curious, Arun followed the sound, deeper into the grove, where the trees grew so close together that the moonlight could barely pierce the canopy. There, in a small clearing, he saw an old man, hunched and gaunt, his skin like wrinkled leather. The man was not picking mangoes from the ground; he was standing under a tree, and with each crack of his knuckles, a ripe mango would detach from its stem and drop into his outstretched palm. He didn’t seem to be collecting them, though; he would just hold the mango for a moment, then let it fall to the ground, as if testing its weight. Arun’s heart pounded, but his feet were rooted. The old man turned, and his eyes, grey as ash, met Arun’s.

‘You’re a bold one, boy,’ the old man said, his voice like dry leaves. ‘But you’re in my portion of the grove. These mangoes are mine, every one that falls here.’ Arun clutched his sack, ready to run, but the old man’s gaze held him. ‘I’ll make you a bargain, boy. You give me one of your mangoes, and I’ll let you take the rest. But not just any mango. The one in your sack that is most perfect, the one you would save for last. You must give me that one, and you must not look back when you leave.’

Arun’s mind raced. The old man seemed impossibly ancient, a spirit or a madman, but the deal was simple, and his greed for mangoes overwhelmed his fear. He knelt, opened his sack, and despite the darkness, he felt for the cool, smooth skin of the best mango, the one he had already decided to savor. He pressed it into the old man’s hand, feeling a tremor pass through the fruit, as if it were alive. ‘Now go,’ the old man said, and Arun turned and ran, not looking back, even when he heard the old man’s laughter, a sound like breaking twigs, following him.

When Arun burst through the back door, his grandmother was waiting with a lantern, her face creased with worry. ‘Arun! Where have you been? The storm is full of wild things.’ He told her about the mangoes, but he did not mention the old man, for he felt a strange shame and a deeper, inexplicable fear. As the weeks passed, Arun noticed that his sack of mangoes had a peculiar quality: no matter how many he ate, there was always one mango left, the one he had given away, but it had returned. It sat at the bottom of the sack, lush and unbruised, and when he looked at it, he saw the old man’s eyes in its dimpled skin. He tried to throw it away, but it would reappear in his pocket, or on his windowsill, and his friends began to whisper that he was cursed.

Years later, Arun moved to the city, left the orchards behind, and became a man of orderly schedules. He never ate mangoes again, but the memory of that night lingered like a thorn in his mind. On a winter evening, when his daughter, Meera, was about to turn twelve, she found an old photograph in a chest, a picture of Arun as a boy, standing in a mango grove. Behind him, half-hidden in the shadows, was a figure that looked like the old man. Arun saw it and went pale, and that night, he told Meera the story, his voice trembling. ‘I broke the bargain, Meera. I looked back, just once, just to see if he was real. And I saw him holding the mango I gave him, but he was pressing it into the ground, feeding it to the roots. I thought I was safe, but now you’re the age I was, and I’m afraid he’s come for you.’

Meera laughed, thinking it a nightmare, but Arun insisted she must never go near the grove, not even for mangoes. Yet, that summer, an ‘andhi’ brewed on the horizon, and Meera felt a pull she couldn’t explain. She took a sack and walked through the fields, past the forgotten well, into the deepening twilight. The wind began to howl, and mangoes started to fall around her, each one landing with a soft, deliberate thud. She stopped, her heart racing, and heard a voice like dry leaves behind her. ‘You’re a bold one, girl. But you’re in my portion of the grove.’ Meera turned, and there he was, the old man, his grey eyes fixed on her sack. ‘I’ll make you a bargain, girl. You give me the mango that is most precious to you, the one you would keep forever, and I’ll let you take the rest. But you must not look back when you leave.’

Meera clutched her sack, feeling the weight of the fruit. She thought of her father’s fear, and of the mango that had haunted him all these years. She knelt, opened the sack, and felt for the one mango that shimmered with a strange warmth, the one that felt like it held a memory. She pressed it into the old man’s hand, and as she did, she saw his eyes widen in surprise. ‘This one is not from my trees,’ he said, and Meera whispered, ‘No, it’s my father’s heart, which he gave me to protect. He told me to give you this, and to say that the bargain is finally complete.’ The old man stared at the mango, which pulsed faintly, and then a look of peace crossed his face. He nodded, and with a sigh that stirred the leaves, he sank into the ground, becoming one with the roots. Meera stood alone, the wind calming, and she knew she had ended the curse. When she returned home, Arun was waiting, and she handed him a single mango, the one she had chosen, and said, ‘He took it, Papa. He’s gone. And I didn’t look back.’ Arun held the mango, and for the first time in decades, he smiled, and the weight in his chest lifted like a storm passing.