Guardians of the Floating Mango Grove

The Mango Grove Mystery

In a quiet village nestled between velvet hills and crystal-clear streams, there was a magical mango grove known as Sundarvan. The grove was unlike any other—its trees, rich with golden mangoes, floated several feet above the ground. Their roots dangled gently in the air, as if sipping moisture from the breeze itself. The villagers believed the grove was a gift from the forest gods, guarded by two watchful spirits: a pair of green parrots named Mithu and Meera, and two clever rabbits named Chikki and Chintu.

Mithu and Meera were no ordinary parrots. Their feathers shimmered like emeralds in the sun, and they could mimic not just human voices, but even the sound of the wind, the rustle of leaves, and the laughter of children. Chikki and Chintu, meanwhile, were master diggers and known across the village for their agility, wit, and sense of mischief.

Every spring, as the mango trees ripened, something extraordinary happened—the fruit glowed faintly at night, as if lit from within. They were called Noor aam—the mangoes of light. A single bite was said to bring a week’s worth of energy, clear the mind of sorrow, and even cure illnesses. But these mangoes weren’t for just anyone. They could only be picked by those with a pure heart and kind intentions.

One year, a mysterious traveler named Viran came to Sundarvan. Dressed in fine silk with a ruby-encrusted turban, he claimed to be a scholar and herbalist in search of rare fruits. But Chikki, the rabbit, caught the glint of greed in his eyes. He and Chintu burrowed through the grass, trailing Viran quietly. Meanwhile, Mithu and Meera flew overhead, watching his every move.

Viran was clever. He waited until nightfall, then tiptoed into the grove with a large sack. Whispering to himself, he reached for a glowing mango. But the moment his fingers touched the fruit, the tree shuddered, and a strong gust of wind pushed him back. Laughing nervously, Viran tried again—this time, cutting the mango with a silver blade. The moment he did, the light vanished from the fruit, and he was thrown across the grove by an unseen force.

Chintu hopped out from behind a bush. “Not so fast, fruit thief,” he squeaked.

Viran stood up angrily, dusting himself off. “You’re just a rabbit. What can you do?”

At that moment, Mithu and Meera swooped down from the air, wings glowing with golden light. They circled Viran, their cries sharp as thunderclaps. The trees rustled violently, and the grass itself seemed to rise. Chikki and Chintu began thumping their feet in unison, and suddenly, the entire field came alive.

Out from the tall grass emerged dozens of rabbits, squirrels, and birds. The grove pulsed with ancient energy. The mangoes on the trees blazed with light, illuminating Viran’s horrified face.

“This grove chooses who is worthy,” Meera said in a voice like the wind through chimes. “You are not.”

Realizing he was outmatched, Viran turned and fled, stumbling out of Sundarvan. From that day forward, no outsider dared steal from the grove. But something else changed, too.

The villagers, hearing the tale, began visiting the grove not just for mangoes but for peace. They brought sick children, weary farmers, and sad souls to sit beneath the floating trees. Mithu and Meera would sing songs that healed the heart, while Chikki and Chintu entertained the little ones with games and riddles. The mangoes continued to glow, more radiant than ever.

One afternoon, a young girl named Tara wandered into the grove. She had tears in her eyes and a letter clutched in her hand—her father had been called to a distant war. She sat under the central tree and cried softly. Seeing her sorrow, Meera landed beside her.

“Why do you weep, child of the wind?” Meera asked.

“My papa is going away. I don’t want to lose him,” Tara whispered.

Without a word, the tree above her lowered one glowing mango. It drifted down slowly and landed in her lap. Mithu flapped his wings once, and a beam of light shot from the mango toward the horizon.

“Your love is strong,” Mithu said. “This fruit will carry your prayer.”

Tara closed her eyes and made a wish. That night, her father, miles away, felt a strange warmth in his chest. He dreamt of home, of Tara’s laughter, and awoke to find his path to safety had cleared unexpectedly.

Years passed, and Tara grew up to be the guardian of Sundarvan. Under her care, the grove flourished. People came not just for fruit but for hope, for stories, for healing. The grove remained a haven—watched over by two parrots in the sky and two rabbits in the grass, always listening, always protecting.

And so, the mystery and magic of the floating mango grove lived on, whispered from tree to breeze to bird—an eternal story blooming in the heart of Sundarvan.