The Mango Tree and the Magic of Summer

There are places in our memories that remain untouched by time—fragments of childhood that come rushing back with a single scent, a sound, or a familiar warmth. For me, it all begins with a mango tree.

The house I grew up in was modest, with cracked walls that hummed stories in the wind and a roof that whistled during monsoon rains. But none of that mattered to us. What mattered most was the towering mango tree in our backyard. It stood like a guardian, strong and knowing, as if it had watched generations before me live, grow, and move on. Its trunk was thick and knotted, and in the summer months, it offered more than shade—it offered magic.

Every summer, as the scorching heat painted everything golden, the mango tree would bloom. I remember the way the sweet, raw scent of mangoes filled the air, how the leaves rustled like whispers from an old friend, and how I’d wake up to the call of cuckoos echoing in the distance.

The neighbourhood kids would gather around the tree like bees to a hive. My cousins, who visited every summer from the city, were my co-adventurers. We had our rituals: climbing the tree barefoot, racing to the highest branch, and watching the horizon melt into a fiery sunset. The tree became a pirate ship, a haunted castle, or sometimes, just a secret place to share our childhood secrets and giggles.

One summer stands out more than the rest.

It was the summer of my tenth year. My grandmother, who was usually a quiet force in the kitchen, humming old folk songs and grinding spices with a stone pestle, decided she would teach me how to make mango pickle. “It’s time you learn,” she said, her eyes twinkling under her silver-rimmed glasses. That morning, we plucked the ripest mangoes from the tree, and I carried them inside in a jute basket, feeling like I’d just returned from an expedition. She handed me a knife and told me to peel them slowly. As I struggled, she told stories—how she had run away once to climb mango trees with her cousins, how she’d burned her tongue tasting raw mango slices with too much chili powder, and how she’d met my grandfather near a mango stall at a village fair. Her stories were windows to a world I never knew, and suddenly, the mangoes weren’t just fruit—they were threads that connected generations.We sliced them, added mustard seeds, chili, salt, turmeric—and as the mixture marinated under the sun for days, its smell became a daily memory. Every time I passed the jars, I’d lift the cloth covering the lids and breathe in the transformation.But childhood isn't always sunshine.

That same summer, we received news that my cousin Aarav—my closest friend, partner in crime, and fellow climber—would be moving abroad. His father got a job in another country, and just like that, he’d be leaving.We spent the rest of that summer differently. There were no races to the highest branch. Instead, we sat quietly under the tree, chewing raw mango slices sprinkled with salt and chili powder, and talking about “what ifs.”“What if we carve our names into the tree?” he said one afternoon, his voice catching slightly.So we did.

Two small boys with a rusted nail and big dreams, carving their initials into the bark. "A + M = Mango Brothers Forever," we wrote. We sealed it with a pact—spitting into our palms and shaking hands, a sacred ritual of eternal friendship. We promised to write letters, send drawings, and tell each other everything.A week later, he left.I cried into my pillow that night, hugging the jar of mango pickle my grandmother had set aside for me.

Years passed. Seasons changed. The mango tree stood strong, but childhood slowly slipped away like grains of sand through open fingers.

Teenage years brought books, exams, and distractions. The magic of the mango tree faded into the background of my growing world. The trunk we once climbed seemed taller and rougher. I no longer chased sunsets—I chased grades, competitions, and approval.But sometimes, when the house was quiet and the air smelled faintly of pickles and dust, I’d walk out to the backyard. I’d run my fingers over the initials on the tree, now faded and worn, but still there. The promise of that summer still whispered in the wind.Then came adulthood. Jobs, cities, deadlines. The tree became just a memory I carried with me, like an old photo in a wallet. I visited home less and less. Life moved fast. Too fast.

Last year, I got a call.My grandmother had passed.I flew back immediately. The house felt different. Smaller. Quieter. As if it too had aged and was waiting to let go. I walked into the backyard and stood before the mango tree.

The initials were barely visible now, weathered by time and seasons. But I traced them with my finger and felt everything—every climb, every laugh, every shared mango slice, every promise. I sat under it like I used to, closed my eyes, and let the memories flood in.Later, while helping my mother sort through my grandmother’s things, I found a dusty jar at the back of her kitchen shelf. It was tightly sealed, and inside were perfectly preserved mango slices. The label read in her handwriting: “For M. Summer 2005.”

I cried then.Not because of the jar. But because of the love it held. The memory it preserved. The childhood it protected.I called Aarav that night. We hadn’t spoken in years. He picked up on the second ring.

“Remember the Mango Brothers?” I asked.

He laughed. “How could I forget?”