Breeze of Mango Tree

बिजनेस पोष्ट

९ महिना अगाडि

By Sanjay Prasad paudel , MA, M.Phil

Gopal sat quietly in the dim veranda of his ancestral home, swallowed by the stillness of the village morning. He had returned after a decade—an exile of choice, or perhaps of compulsion. The house stood almost unchanged, except for the withering of age upon its pillars, and the silence that hung thick inside its walls.
His mother, frail and sunken, moved through the rooms like a shadow of the woman she once was. Alzheimer’s had stolen much from her—names, faces, years—but not everything. She still remembered Gopal, and sometimes, with the clarity of a sudden sunbeam through fog, she would recall that morning long ago when he first set off for school, clutching a jute bag and a black wooden slate against his small chest. Her lips would tremble into a smile as she recited the memory like a half-forgotten prayer.
His father, deaf to the world yet deeply tuned to the divine, remained a figure of unwavering devotion. A retired government officer, he woke each day before the first blush of dawn, bathed in the cold village well, and chanted his mantras—”Hare Shiv, Om Namah Shivaya, Har Har Gange”—as though they were the breath itself. Time had bent his back but not his spirit.
Yet Gopal’s return was not the act of a dutiful son, though he let the village believe it. Truth was, he had come not in care, but in retreat. In Kathmandu, fortune had turned its back on him. The city had chewed his dreams down to bone: bankrupt, burdened, and bitter, he wandered the nights in alcohol-soaked silence, returning to a home already asleep. By morning, he would slip away again, a ghost in his own house, unseen by wife or child.
The village, meanwhile, had blossomed in his absence. Roads that were once muddy veins were now lined with lights. Not far from his home, a monastery rose, its sacred chants flowing each dawn like wind over water. Beside it stood a temple, and just beyond, a modest mosque—three voices of faith in quiet harmony, calling out across the fields to greet the waking world.
One summer afternoon, the sun blazing gently through the mango leaves, Gopal sat beside his aging parents. His mother, lost in the fog of Alzheimer’s, gazed at nothing in particular. His father, though deaf, was sharpening a bamboo stick with quiet precision, as though listening to something the world could not hear.
Breaking the silence, Gopal spoke softly, almost to himself.
“Baba, I cannot stay here any longer. My children come to me in dreams. They call me. I must return. My family waits.”
His father looked up with a faint smile, lines deepening in his weatherworn face.
“It’s only May,” he said calmly. “Wait until June. The mangoes on our tree will ripen then. You’ll taste them first—those mangoes of our own. And after that, do as your heart tells you.”
Something in that quiet voice, that ancient assurance, held Gopal back. And so he stayed. Days turned into weeks, and the mangoes grew round and golden in the thick green canopy. June arrived, fragrant and slow. One morning, his father summoned him.
Something in that quiet voice, that ancient assurance, held Gopal back. And so he stayed. Days turned into weeks, and the mangoes grew round and golden in the thick green canopy. June arrived, fragrant and slow. One morning, his father summoned him.
“Climb the tree,” the old man commanded. “Pick the ripe ones. I’ll collect them below.”
Gopal obeyed. He climbed into the dense branches of the mango tree he had once scrambled up as a boy. One by one, he plucked the heavy fruits and dropped them gently to the ground, where his father bent to gather them, placing each with care into a wide bamboo bucket.
When the work was done, he climbed down, sweat streaking his brow. But his breath caught when he saw the bucket—overflowing with golden mangoes, the skin of each fruit glistening with morning light. A laugh escaped him—pure, unguarded.
He had never seen such abundance in his city home. In Kathmandu, he would buy one or two kilos, sometimes three if fortune allowed, from the street vendor who walked the lanes calling, “Mango! Mango! Fresh Indian mangoes!” But never had he held a whole bucket to himself. Never had mangoes felt like a celebration rather than a transaction.
And in that moment, beneath the tree that had fed his childhood, surrounded by the silence of his village and the quiet presence of his father, Gopal felt something stir in his chest—not just joy, but a quiet return to a life he had forgotten.
Gopal lifted a ripe mango to his lips, its golden skin warm from the sun. He tore it open with his hands, and thick, sweet juice ran between his fingers. As he sucked the pulp slowly, his eyes drifted closed, and the taste unlocked a thousand memories buried in the corners of his heart.
He was no longer a man with grey at his temples and worry in his bones—he was a barefoot boy again, running wild through fields under the vast Nepali sky.
His mother, once strong and tireless, had been a farmer then. She tended to the land with fierce hands and a gentler heart. They had servants in those days—one to watch over the cows and goats, though she herself never stayed idle. His father, neatly dressed in the white daura suruwal of a government clerk, worked in the village post office, a place that smelled of ink, old paper, and stamps soaked in history.
Each morning, before the world was fully awake, his father would milk the cows. The clay oven in the courtyard would glow softly as milk came to a boil in a blackened pot. Father and son would sit side by side on the stone steps, sipping hot milk while the golden light of dawn filtered through the trees.
Then, they would set off to the fields—his father guiding the plough, and Gopal, though just a boy, tugging on the rope or brushing dust from the oxen’s backs, proud to be part of something real, something earthy and eternal. He didn’t know then what happiness was—but he had lived inside it.
“Put the bucket inside,” his father’s voice broke the trance.
The mango slipped slightly in his palm. The sweetness on his tongue faded as he returned to the present—but he did not feel sad. Something inside him had changed. The memory, like a breeze through an open window, had cleared the dust of years.
He picked up the bucket and walked toward the house. And with each step, he felt the boy in him still alive, still running, still laughing in the mango-scented air of his childhood.
Gopal was once again lost in the sweetness of the mangoes. June passed in a golden haze, each day thick with heat and memory. The days melted into each other, marked only by the changing shapes of clouds and the shifting sunlight through mango leaves. He spent his mornings beneath the shade, sucking the pulp of ripe fruit, as if trying to draw out not just taste, but time itself.
Then one afternoon, the sun blazing fiercely overhead, Gopal set down a half-eaten mango and said, “Baba, the heat is unbearable. I must go visit my son. I see him in dreams every night—I feel him calling me.”
His father, quiet as always, looked up from the grass where he was weaving a rope. He didn’t protest, but a shadow passed over his face. He knew well what Gopal’s leaving meant: a house that would once again fall into silence, and the weight of caring for his ailing wife resting squarely on his old shoulders.
After a moment, the old man replied gently, “It is July now. Only a short wait, and then October will come. You remember October, don’t you? The season of our greatest festival—Dashain. One month before it arrives, the heat fades, and the world begins to change. The wind grows cool, and the sky turns pink at dusk, like a prayer stretched across the heavens. The whole village begins to prepare. Kites dance in the sky, women dry grains on rooftops, and children run barefoot through the grass, singing songs of the Goddess. We will build the wooden swing—remember? The one made from bamboo poles and rope. You used to fly so high, Gopal, as if you might touch the sky.”
As his father spoke, Gopal felt the past swell inside him like a rising tide. Once more, he was a boy in his village, where joy came not from things, but from the turning of seasons, the scent of new grass, the laughter of children. He recalled the memory of scapegot,flying kites and catching the dragon butterfly on the ground.
In Kathmandu, such feelings had become strangers to him. There, the days passed in a blur of cement, noise, and clocks ticking too fast. But here—here, time breathed differently.
He remembered the Durga temple, standing proudly at the edge of the village. Each year before Dashain, artists came from Bihar, shaping clay and straw into gods and demons—Durga, Kali, Ganesh, Laxmi, Shiva, Saraswati, and the black-fanged asuras they would soon conquer. He would often skip school, sneaking away to watch the statues take form under the sculptor’s hands. Hours would pass as he sat cross-legged in wonder, hypnotized by the transformation of mud into divinity.
His eyes shimmered with memory. Then he smiled to himself, speaking quietly, almost shyly:
“Wait for this October,” he whispered.
And in that moment, the longing in his heart softened—not vanished, but quieted by the promise of something pure and timeless.
October arrived, gentle and golden. The air turned cool, like a soft hand brushing the face. The fields shimmered in mellow sunlight, and the skies bloomed pink at dusk, just as his father had promised. The village stirred with the pulse of festivity. Women painted the walls of their homes with red soil and fresh clay, their hands shaping beauty out of earth. The scent of incense, smoke, and ripe paddy lingered in the breeze.
A tall bamboo swing was raised in the clearing near the banyan tree—the same place where Gopal had once leapt into the air with the reckless joy of youth. Children now took their turn, their laughter echoing across the fields.
Gopal wandered once again to the Durga temple. There, under a makeshift canopy, the gods were taking form. Clay and straw had transformed into the fierce eyes of Durga, the serpentine grace of Kali, the calm face of Saraswati, the chubby smile of Ganesh. Just like his childhood days, he stood motionless for hours, watching the idols come alive. And in that silence, something sacred stirred within him—like a forgotten prayer remembered at last.
He smiled and whispered to himself, “Baba was right. The world does change in October.”
And indeed, it had.
Old friends gathered again, as if no years had passed. Each evening, they met at the village teashop, where steam from milk tea danced in the air and the benches were worn by generations of stories. They talked politics, old memories, and village gossip, laughed like boys, and felt whole again. People welcomed Gopal like the return of a wandering son. His absence was forgiven, even forgotten.
Then came the day his wife and children arrived in the village. He ran to greet them with a joy he had not known in years. His house rang with voices, footsteps, and laughter. He took his children to the fair, the mela, bought them colored sweets and wooden flutes, pointed out the gods he had watched take shape. He bowed his head for tika on the tenth day of Dashain, as his parents blessed him, his wife, and his children. The sound of dholak, the chants of Navaratri, the match of village wrestlers, and the sparkle of distant fireworks—all folded into a single, timeless moment of celebration.
And so October passed—not just as a month, but as a gift. A season of return, of forgiveness, of rediscovery.
After the festival of Dashain came to an end, the skies grew quieter, the air sharper with the whispers of coming winter. One morning, Gopal turned to his father and said gently, “Baba, it’s enough now. I must return to Kathmandu with my wife and children. Life waits for us there.”
His father looked at him for a long moment. The old man’s lips trembled slightly, but he said nothing. Then, quietly, he turned his face away and wiped at the corners of his eyes, hiding the tears like a secret he didn’t wish to share.
When he spoke, his voice was steady, but tender:
“You haven’t yet seen the beauty of Chhath. It is not just a festival—it is the song of the earth, the river, the sun, and the sky. The women sing not to gods of stone, but to the spirit of nature itself. Stay just a little longer. Watch it once more.”
And so, Gopal stayed—one more time, one more season.
The river banks began to fill with quiet devotion. Women, dressed in bright saris, began their fasts. They prepared offerings of bananas, sugarcane, coconut, sweets, and thekuwa, placing them in small baskets made of bamboo. Songs drifted through the dusk—ancient, haunting hymns to the sun god, Surya, and his sister Shasthi. There was something pure in their voices, something as eternal as the river they faced.
As Gopal watched from the bank, he felt something stir in him again—something he had felt as a boy. He smiled faintly as a memory came flooding back: how, as a mischievous child, he had crept among the worshippers, stealing bananas and sweets from the offerings meant for the goddess. He could still hear his mother’s scolding voice, half-angry, half-laughing.
Now, as a man, he watched the same rituals with reverence. He stood still as the sun dipped below the western hills, the sky painted in deep orange and violet. The water shimmered with lamps and hope. Women stood waist-deep in the river, eyes closed, hands folded—not asking for riches, but simply giving thanks for light, for water, for life.
And in that moment, Gopal understood what his father had meant.
This was not merely a festival. It was a blessing. A promise between human and nature. A memory wrapped in song.
Winter returned, quiet and soft, like an old friend slipping into the village with chilled breath and misty mornings. The air smelled of firewood and ripe fruits. Without realizing it, Gopal had once again postponed his journey back to the city. The urgency that once haunted him—the weight of responsibilities, the echo of unfulfilled ambitions—had slowly faded into the rhythm of rural life.
Each dawn, wrapped in a thick shawl, Gopal would lie awake in bed, not quite rising, but listening. From the east, the low, resonant chants of monks floated from the monastery—ancient syllables carrying peace in every note. Soon after, the temple bells would ring, echoing across the village rooftops. And not far beyond, the gentle, lyrical prayer from the mosque would rise into the cold air, like incense offered to the sky.
From his bed, Gopal listened to this chorus of devotion, each voice a thread in the same sacred fabric. In those early hours, before the world stirred, he felt something he had never found in the city—something deep, wordless, and pure. It was as if the earth, the gods, and time itself were at peace here.
He looked at the sleeping forms of his aging parents, their faces lined by years, their bodies softened by time. And in that moment, he felt no burden. Only purpose.
He closed his eyes and whispered from the depths of his heart:
“Oh Almighty God, give me strength. Grant me the power to serve them—to care for them as they once cared for me.”
Slowly, winter loosened its grip. The frost melted from the rooftops, and tender green began to return to the branches. The days lengthened, the earth stirred—and with the change of season, so too did Gopal’s restlessness awaken.
One morning, as the first warm breeze swept across the fields, Gopal stood in the courtyard, bag half-packed, heart divided. Looking at his father, he spoke with quiet resolve, “Baba, I must go now. I want to see my family—my children. They must be waiting.”
His father, still crouched beneath the mango tree, looked up at the budding branches. A faint smile touched his lips, and he said simply, “The mango tree is flowering again. Soon it will bear fruit. Stay until then. Taste it once more.”
It was not merely a delay he offered—it was an invitation to remain within a world where time was measured not by clocks, but by the blossoming and ripening of life.
Gopal looked up at the tree. The tiny green blossoms trembled in the morning wind. He understood, then, that this was not just about mangoes. It was about memory—the echo of his mother’s laughter, the warmth of fresh milk in winter sun, the clay idols of the goddess, the stolen sweets, the scent of soil after rain. It was all there, folded into the fruit of that tree. A taste not of sweetness alone, but of belonging.