Arun was nine years old when he first heard the mango tree speak. It was an ancient tree, standing tall in the courtyard of his ancestral home in a small village in Maharashtra. His grandparents always said that the tree had been there long before any of them were born. Its trunk was gnarled and thick, and its branches stretched wide, offering shade from the scorching Indian sun. Every summer, it bore the sweetest, juiciest mangoes that Arun had ever tasted.

He was convinced the tree was special, though no one else believed him. His mother would laugh whenever he mentioned it, ruffling his hair and saying, “You have a vivid imagination, beta.” His father, a schoolteacher in the next town, only smiled indulgently. But Arun never doubted what he felt whenever he sat beneath that tree in the early mornings. He would close his eyes, place a hand on its rough bark, and sense a comforting hum—a gentle reassurance that the tree understood him.

One summer afternoon, after his daily chores, Arun slipped out of the house and wandered to the courtyard. The sun was fierce, but the shade beneath the mango tree was pleasantly cool. He sank onto the dusty ground and gazed at the emerald leaves rustling in the breeze. The summer heat made the air shimmer, and the entire village seemed to be dozing. Somewhere, a lone crow cawed.

He closed his eyes, leaning his back against the trunk. In that quiet, half-drowsy moment, he heard it—soft as a whisper, like leaves brushing each other. It was as though the tree breathed. Then came a voice, low and warm: “Arun, do not fear. You are never alone.”

His eyes flew open. He glanced around, but no one was there. The courtyard was empty. Slowly, he placed his palm against the bark again. The voice did not return. Yet the sense of calm it had given him lingered in his chest, filling him with a curious kind of hope.

Arun lived in a joint family with his grandparents, parents, uncle, aunt, and two cousins. The house bustled with activity all day long—people cooking, cleaning, gossiping, or stepping out to the market. In the evenings, the family gathered on the front verandah to sip chai and watch the sun set behind the coconut palms. Life was simple, but not always easy. The farmland that supported them was subject to the whims of the monsoon. If the rains came late or fell too hard, the harvest would suffer.

That year, the monsoon was delayed. By mid-June, not a single heavy shower had come. The fields were dry and cracked, and the local well’s water level dropped every day. Worry etched itself into the lines on Arun’s father’s forehead. He spoke in hushed tones with neighbors about the possibility of a drought. Everyone prayed for rain. The entire village seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the clouds to gather.

Arun felt this tension like an invisible weight. Each night, he would lie awake, imagining dark clouds sweeping in from the Arabian Sea, hearing thunder roll, and picturing sheets of rain pouring down on the thirsty land. But every morning, he woke to find the sky relentlessly blue.

One evening, as he watered the mango tree with the last of the stored water in a small pail, he whispered, “We need the monsoon, or our crops will die. Can you help?” He was half-expecting the tree to speak again. But it remained silent, leaves trembling in the evening breeze. Disappointed, he turned to go back inside when he thought he heard a faint sigh from the branches overhead. He paused, heart thudding, but the tree said nothing more.

Days stretched into weeks. The monsoon still had not arrived. The paddy fields lay fallow, and farmers walked around with anxious eyes. Arun’s grandparents had never seen a year this dry. Tension simmered everywhere—at the tea stall, the temple courtyard, even in the hush of the classroom where Arun’s father taught. No one said it outright, but everyone feared a drought.

One afternoon, an argument erupted between villagers at the local well, each accusing the other of taking more water than they needed. Arun stood by the edge, clutching his little brass pot, watching grown men shout and wave their arms. It frightened him, the anger in their voices. That night, he could not sleep. He tiptoed outside to the courtyard, moonlight spilling across the dusty ground. The mango tree stood quietly, branches shimmering in silver.

He approached it cautiously, pressing a palm to the bark. The trunk felt cool, reassuring. He closed his eyes. In the silence of the night, he heard that gentle whisper again, “Have faith, child. The rains will come.”

He opened his eyes wide. “When?” he whispered urgently. But there was no reply. Only the distant call of a night bird. He sighed, but somehow, the worry in his chest lifted a little.

The next day, the sky showed no signs of rain. The sun was merciless, scorching the earth. Despite this, Arun felt oddly calm, as if the mango tree’s promise was enough. When the wind picked up in the late afternoon, swirling dust along the paths, villagers perked up, scanning the horizon for clouds. Nothing materialized.

At home, his mother scolded him for daydreaming too much. “Arun, do something useful! Help your cousins fetch water.” But he believed what the tree had said. The rains would come. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but soon.

Another week crawled by. The village grew more desperate. People whispered about a special prayer at the temple to appease the rain gods. Some planned to travel to the district headquarters to petition the government for water tankers. Arun’s father, typically a calm man, paced the verandah at night, muttering about the crops.

Then, on a sweltering afternoon, the wind changed direction. A breeze arrived from the west, carrying with it a faint smell of moisture. Dark clouds gathered at the horizon, still distant. By sunset, the sky was a dramatic canvas of purples and grays. Thunder rumbled, low and ominous. The entire village paused to look upward, hearts pounding. Was this truly it?

Lightning flickered across the clouds. In the hush, you could feel the collective prayer. And then, with a sudden roar, the heavens opened. Sheets of rain poured down, drenching fields, roads, and rooftops in moments. The parched earth drank greedily. People ran out of their homes, laughing, shouting, dancing in the downpour.

Arun rushed to the courtyard, clothes soaked in seconds. He tilted his face to the sky, letting the raindrops splatter across his cheeks. It felt like a miracle. He spun around and saw the mango tree’s leaves glistening, water streaming down its trunk. He pressed a hand to the bark, water dripping off his elbow, and whispered, “You were right. Thank you.”

He could almost sense a contented sigh in return, though it might have just been the rustle of leaves in the monsoon wind.

In the days that followed, the mood of the village transformed. Wells began to fill. Farmers sowed seeds in the softened earth. The tension in people’s voices faded, replaced by relief. The entire region buzzed with renewed hope, as if the land itself had awakened from a deep slumber.

Arun’s father resumed his normal routine, traveling to the next town to teach, a spring in his step. His mother hummed cheerful tunes while cooking. Even the local tea stall seemed livelier, men chatting about the good fortune of the rains arriving before it was too late.

Meanwhile, the mango tree flourished under the fresh moisture. New buds appeared on its branches. Arun would often sit beneath it after school, reading or daydreaming, listening to the patter of leftover raindrops falling from leaves. He still felt that calm presence, the intangible sense that the tree was alive in ways most people didn’t notice.

Summer gave way to the monsoon’s full embrace. Puddles formed on the dirt roads, and the fields turned a vibrant green. Children splashed barefoot in the mud, and birds chirped from every rooftop. Even the stray dogs seemed happier. The village was no longer a place of worry, but of promise.

One evening, as he was gathering fallen mango leaves for compost, Arun spotted his grandfather leaning against the tree, eyes closed. Surprised, he approached quietly. His grandfather, hearing footsteps, opened his eyes. There was a faint smile on his lips. He patted the trunk gently. “I used to think it was silly, your belief that this tree could speak,” he murmured. “But sometimes, I wonder if it listens.”

Arun’s heart soared. He said nothing, only nodded. He felt an unspoken bond forming between them—two generations united by the quiet magic of an ancient tree.

Months passed. The monsoon eventually tapered off, leaving the land lush and the well brimming. The harvest looked promising, and the villagers breathed easier. Life returned to its comfortable rhythm.

Though Arun never heard the tree speak again as clearly as before, he sensed its warmth every time he touched the bark. Sometimes, in the hush of dawn, he thought he heard a faint hum, like a kindly old friend greeting him. It reminded him that nature held its own wisdom—that the land, the rain, the seeds, and the people were all connected in a grand tapestry.

When the next summer rolled around, the mango tree produced a bumper crop of fruit. Arun and his cousins climbed its branches to pluck the ripe mangoes, sticky juice dribbling down their chins as they devoured them. The air was filled with laughter, the sweet scent of mango, and the soft rustle of leaves overhead.

Standing on one of the sturdy branches, Arun paused to look out at the fields, the red-tiled roofs of the village houses, and the faint outline of distant hills. A breeze ruffled his hair, and in that moment, he felt deeply grateful—for the rains that came when they were needed, for the quiet faith that had blossomed in his heart, and for the mango tree that had taught him to hope.

He closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face, and silently thanked the tree once more. And if he listened very carefully, he could almost hear it whisper back: “You are never alone, my child. Never alone.”