I Am Mango – The Tree With a Soul

They call me a mango tree. But I’ve always felt like more than that. I have roots in the earth, yes—but I’ve also grown roots in people’s lives. I am not just a tree. I am a witness. A giver. A silent keeper of countless stories.

My life began in the most ordinary way—a mango pit tossed into the soil by a boy who had no idea what he'd started. Rain softened the earth. The sun coaxed me out. I was tiny then, unsure, trembling in the wind. But life pushed me to grow, and so I did.

Every year I reach higher, not out of ambition, but hope. The sky pulls me like a dream. My leaves whisper with the wind, telling secrets in green tones only birds understand. I've survived storms that tore through my branches and summers so hot they cracked my bark. Yet I never stopped. Because that’s what we trees do—we endure.

Then came the fruits. My first mango—small, shy, and golden—hung from my limb like a child taking its first step. People noticed. Eyes lit up. “Ah, the mango tree bears!” they said, and from then on, I wasn’t just a tree. I was treasure.

Children began to visit. They’d climb my limbs and swing from ropes tied around my sturdy arms. Some fell, laughed, and climbed again. I’ve heard their giggles echo in my branches long after they grew up and stopped coming.

Lovers would sit beneath me, whispering dreams into each other’s ears. Some carved hearts into my bark. It hurt, yes—but I let them. Because that’s what love does. It gives even when it leaves scars.

I’ve offered shade to old farmers with sweat-stained shirts and aching backs. I’ve stood watch over sleeping babies in hammocks tied gently between my arms. I’ve seen tears fall during funerals, and flowers laid at my feet. I never said a word. But I remembered everything.

And then came the mango season—the time of year I feel most alive. My branches grow heavy with golden gifts. People come with baskets, long sticks, and laughter. Some climb me gently, while others are rough, shaking me as if my fruit owed them something. Still, I give. Always. Whether they thank me or not.

But not all stories are sweet.

I’ve lost friends. Mango trees nearby, chopped down for buildings or burned to clear land. I watched them fall, their last leaves fluttering like a silent goodbye. I've heard the whispers of chainsaws. And I’ve felt the fear of being next.

Yet here I am. Still rooted. Still giving.

Sometimes, I wonder if humans realize how deeply we feel. No, not like them—not with words and worries—but with silence, memory, and presence. We feel the joy of children playing, the heartbreak of goodbyes, the warmth of sun, and the sorrow of drought.

When someone bites into my fruit, they taste more than mango. They taste sun-soaked days, cool monsoon nights, and the quiet patience of years. They taste me.

So if you ever see a mango tree, pause. Touch the bark. Close your eyes. Listen—not with ears, but with your heart. You might just hear a story. My story. The story of giving without asking, loving without words, and standing tall no matter what.

I am not just wood and leaves.

I am mango.Stating