The Mango Tree’s Gift

My name is Arjun, and I am a 32-year-old lawyer, living in a cramped apartment in Vashi, Navi Mumbai. But my childhood was spent in a different world altogether—a quaint, two-storied house in Vasai, surrounded by a sprawling garden that felt like an endless green ocean. The house itself was old, with creaky wooden stairs and windows that seemed to sigh in the wind. Outside, there stood a colossal banyan tree, ancient and gnarled, and a grove of mango trees that bore the sweetest fruit I have ever tasted. Every summer, the branches would hang heavy with golden treasures, and the air would be thick with the scent of ripe mangoes.

I was barely six years old when my maternal grandfather, whom I called Nana, passed away. He lived in a small coastal town called Alibaug with my eldest uncle. Nana was a gentle soul, with a booming laugh and a penchant for storytelling. He would often visit us during the mango season, and we would sit under the banyan tree while he peeled mangoes for me with his pocket knife, juice dripping down his fingers. His death from a sudden heart attack, after months of illness, was a blow I could barely comprehend. I was his favorite grandchild, and I had not been able to see him in his final days. The grief was a heavy stone in my chest, and the house that once felt warm now seemed hollow.

One night, about a month after his passing, I woke from a deep sleep. The room was bathed in a pale silver light from the full moon outside. I felt a strange pull, a compulsion to go to the window that overlooked the garden. As I parted the curtains, I saw the banyan tree, its massive silhouette like a whispering giant. And there, beneath its canopy, I saw a figure. My heart stopped. It was Nana, standing in his customary white cotton kurta, his face kind and familiar. He was looking up at me, and he smiled. I felt no fear, only a sudden, overwhelming warmth. He raised his hand, and in his palm was a large, perfectly ripe mango, glowing faintly in the moonlight. He gestured for me to come down.

I tiptoed out of my room, down the creaky stairs, and out the back door into the cool night air. The grass was damp under my bare feet. Nana was still there, waiting. He didn’t speak, but his eyes said everything. He handed me the mango, and as I took it, I felt a jolt of sensation—not pain, but a bittersweet flood of memories: the taste of his mangoes, the sound of his laughter, the security of his embrace. Then he pointed to the house, then to me, and then faded away like mist. I stood there, clutching the mango, alone in the garden.

I kept that mango, placing it on my nightstand. It never rotted; it remained as fresh as the day I picked it, its skin a deep orange. I didn’t tell my parents, lest they think I had lost my mind. But every night, I would look at it, and I would feel a deep sense of peace. Months passed, and the mango became a silent comfort.

But then, the house began to change. At first, it was subtle. The banyan tree seemed to droop, its leaves turning a dull gray. The mango grove, once lush, produced no fruit the following summer. The garden began to feel menacing, as if the very soil had soured. And then, I started seeing Nana again, but not in the garden. He would appear at the foot of my bed, his expression urgent, almost pleading. He would point to the mango on my nightstand, then to the window, then shake his head violently. And I would wake with a start, the mango cold in my hand.

I grew obsessed. I began reading old family letters, and I discovered a shocking truth: Nana had not died of a heart attack. He had been poisoned, slowly, by a jealous cousin who coveted his land. Nana had known, and he had written a cryptic note, hidden in one of his diaries. The night he appeared to me, I had been the only one awake, and he had given me the mango as a sign—a token of his spirit’s unrest. The mango was not a gift; it was a key. I felt a burning need to return to the house in Vasai, to uncover the truth.

I traveled there after a decade, my parents having sold it long ago. The house was abandoned, the garden overgrown and wild. The banyan tree stood, but its trunk was split, a sickly ooze weeping down its side. As I stepped onto the porch, I felt a chill. Inside, the air was thick with dust. I searched the house, and in a hidden compartment in Nana’s old study, I found his diary. The last entry read, ‘If you find this, it means I have passed. The mango tree knows. Trust it.’ I looked outside, and there, in the grove, one single mango tree still bore fruit—one gleaming, perfect mango, hanging from a branch. I plucked it, and as I held it, I felt the same jolt as before, but this time, images flooded my mind: the poison, the cousin, the secret burial. Nana’s ghost stood beside me, his face twisted in anguish, not of sorrow, but of fury. And then, I understood.

The mango tree had absorbed his final moments, his fury, his desire for justice. It was not a gift but a curse, a burden I was chosen to carry. As I held the fruit, the tree began to wither, its leaves curling and falling, until it was nothing but a skeletal trunk. The mango in my hand turned black and shriveled, and I dropped it. I felt a great weight lift, but also a profound loss. I left the house, knowing I would never return. But the memory of that night, and the mango that never rotted, haunts me still. Now, in my Vashi apartment, I sometimes look out at the concrete jungle and smell ripe mangoes on the wind, and I wonder if Nana is finally at peace, or if he’s waiting for me to come back and tend to something else. I don’t take any chances; I never eat another mango again. The sweetness of that fruit, once a joy, is now a reminder of the restless dead, and the gifts they leave are never sweet.