*The Great Mango Heist*

In the thick of a July afternoon, when the sun hung heavy and the air smelled like warm earth and ripe fruit, the mango trees of Ahmedpur wore their golden bounty with pride. And none shone brighter than Haji Saab’s ancient Chaunsa tree—its branches sagging under the weight of mangoes so sweet, people swore they could make a grumpy uncle crack a smile.

Which is exactly why Bilal and Dani had gathered behind the old handpump at midnight, hearts pounding like drums in a wedding procession.

They weren’t thieves. Not really. More like fruit enthusiasts with questionable timing.

Their plan? Simple, if deeply flawed:

1. Sneak into Haji Saab’s garden after dark.

2. Harvest exactly three mangoes—enough for a taste, not enough to be labeled “villains.”

3. Disappear into the night like legends.

Bilal adjusted his torn backpack. Dani, ever the strategist, had brought a flashlight with dying batteries and insisted on wearing sunglasses.

“Bro, it’s pitch black,” Bilal said. “Why the shades?”

“Night vision,” Dani replied, pushing them up his nose. “And style.”

They tiptoed through the hibiscus bushes, tripping over roots and each other. Dani let out a soft “baa,” then another.

“What are you doing?” Bilal hissed.

“Goat camouflage,” Dani whispered. “If he hears noises, he’ll think it’s livestock. Not us.”

Unseen in the shadows, Haji Saab’s cat, Sher Khan—a fluffy dictator with a judgmental stare—watched them from the rooftop, tail flicking like a metronome of doom.

Bilal reached the tree, grabbed a low-hanging branch, and began to climb. It creaked ominously.

“One… two…” He dropped a mango into Dani’s bag. “Two mangoes secured.”

As he stretched for the third—plump, golden, practically glowing—snap! The branch gave way. Bilal flailed, tumbled, and landed—sploosh!—right into Haji Saab’s rainwater bucket, now full from last week’s downpour.

He emerged, dripping, mango clutched like a trophy, hair plastered to his forehead.

Then—light.

The veranda bulb flicked on.

“Kaun hai wahan?!” Haji Saab’s voice boomed across the yard, sharp enough to wake the neighborhood dogs.

Dani panicked. “Abort! Save the fruit!” He clutched the bag and bolted—immediately tripping over a garden hose and face-planting into a patch of marigolds.

Bilal scrambled out of the bucket and sprinted after him, bare feet slapping the dusty path, soaked pajamas flapping like surrender flags.

Behind them, Haji Saab emerged in a lungi and slippers, flashlight in one hand, Sher Khan trotting beside him like a tiny bodyguard.

The chase was brief but legendary.

They zigged past the mosque, zagged behind the milk shop, and finally collapsed behind a stack of sugarcane stalks, gasping.

Dani, leaves in his hair, looked at Bilal. “Well… we got one.”

Bilal stared at the single, bruised mango in his hand—half-crushed, half-soggy. It looked less like a prize and more like a crime scene photo.

The next morning, the story spread faster than monsoon rain. At the tea stall, uncles debated the “Great Mango Incident” between sips of chai. Kids reenacted the bucket fall at recess. Someone even claimed Sher Khan had filed a police report.

But Haji Saab? He just chuckled, stirring sugar into his tea. “Those boys? All bark, no bite. Like stray dogs chasing buses.”

A week later, he called them over.

Sat them down. Served them lassi. Then handed each a basket overflowing with Chaunsa mangoes—perfect, fragrant, dripping with juice.

“Next time,” he said, eyes twinkling, “just knock.”

Bilal and Dani mumbled apologies, cheeks redder than overripe guavas.

They learned something that day. Not about honesty, exactly. Or patience. More like… timing. And the fact that most people aren’t as scary as their night-time imaginations.

As for the mango? They ate it together under the banyan tree. It was magical. But not nearly as sweet as being forgiven.

And yes—next summer, they tried the same thing with Auntie Rukhsana’s guavas.

But that’s a story for another night