The Swing Beneath the Mango Tree

I don’t remember the exact day the swing appeared. One morning, it was just there—hanging from the thickest branch of the mango tree in our backyard. A simple wooden plank, smoothed at the edges, suspended by two long ropes. My grandfather must’ve put it up. He was always fixing or building something with his rough, capable hands and silent patience.

That swing became the heart of my childhood.

Our backyard wasn’t anything fancy. Just a stretch of uneven earth, patches of stubborn grass, and the big old mango tree that had stood there longer than any of us. Its roots rose out of the ground like veins, making little hills we used as imaginary forts. In the summer, the smell of mango blossoms filled the air, sticky and sweet. I can still smell it when I think hard enough.

Every day after school, I’d dump my bag just inside the door and race barefoot to the tree. I’d leap onto the swing and start pumping my legs, trying to reach the clouds. There was something about the way the wind rushed past my ears, the blur of green and sky blending together—it made me feel like I could fly, like time didn’t matter.

Sometimes my younger brother would join me, and we’d take turns pushing each other or try to swing side-by-side in perfect sync. We’d get competitive about who could go higher, until one of us nearly flipped over and got yelled at by Mom from the kitchen window. She always had that sixth sense—she’d be chopping onions or boiling rice, and somehow she’d know we were up to something dangerous.

During the summer holidays, our cousins would come to stay. The house would be packed, the beds shared, and the backyard would become a battleground. We played cricket with a plastic bat, used a tree stump as a wicket. The mango tree was out of bounds—if the ball hit the trunk, it was a six. But mostly, it was the swing that got the most action. We’d pile onto it—three kids at a time—and shriek with laughter as it swayed and bent, the ropes groaning under our weight. Looking back, it’s a miracle it never snapped.

When the mangoes ripened, Grandpa would bring out a long stick with a net tied to one end. He’d gently pull the fruits down, one by one, inspecting each with a frown before nodding and handing them off to us. But we were impatient. We’d try to knock them down ourselves by throwing stones or shaking the branches, which got us into trouble more often than not. Still, nothing tasted better than a warm mango, fresh from the tree, the juice running down our arms as we ate it right there in the yard, surrounded by buzzing bees and sunlight.

I remember the day it rained so hard that the backyard turned into a muddy lake. Most kids would’ve stayed inside, but not us. We played barefoot in the rain, our clothes soaked and stuck to our skin. We took turns swinging through the downpour, shrieking like wild things. It felt reckless and free in a way only kids can truly understand. That night, we caught colds and got scolded, but I never regretted it. It was one of the best days of my life.

As I got older, the swing saw less of me. School got harder, then came tuition, entrance exams, responsibilities. The magic started to fade—not all at once, but little by little. The last time I remember using that swing, I think I was fourteen. I had just gotten into an argument with my father, and I stormed outside without a word. I sat on the swing and didn’t move. I just let it sway gently while I stared up into the tree, watching the way the leaves shifted with the wind. It didn’t solve anything, but it calmed me, the way it always had.

The swing is gone now. The ropes finally gave way one monsoon, and no one bothered to replace them. The tree is still there, though—taller than ever, bearing fewer fruits, but still standing. When I visit home, I sometimes go out and stand under it. I press my hand to the trunk, close my eyes, and I can almost hear the laughter again. I can feel the swing swaying, my legs kicking through the air, the sky above wide and waiting.

Childhood isn’t just a time—it’s a place. And for me, it lives under that mango tree.