The afternoons in Beanibazar were always slower than the mornings, as if the sun itself grew tired of shining and decided to walk barefoot through the village, touching everything with lazy warmth. On such an afternoon—light thick like honey, air heavy with the smell of rain somewhere far away—a mango fell from the old tree in the courtyard with a loud thud.
Sara looked up from the veranda where she was cleaning lentils. A frown crossed her face. “Not again,” she muttered.
She placed the bowl aside and walked across the stone path toward the massive mango tree that stood like an old guardian beside the house. The tree had been there long before she was born, long before her mother married into this home, long before her grandmother even learned how to read the ripeness of fruit just by touching it. It was a tree woven into every story of the family—births, weddings, fights, secrets whispered under its shade.
And now, for reasons that puzzled everyone, the tree had begun dropping mangoes long before the season had truly arrived.
Sara bent down and picked up the fallen fruit. Its skin was unripe and green. She ran her thumb across it. Smooth. Cold. But the bottom was bruised where it had struck the earth.
“You fell too early,” she whispered.
The wind rustled through the leaves as though in response.
Behind her, the screen door creaked. Her grandmother, stooped and wrapped in a cotton saree faded from countless washes, stepped out with slow, careful movements.
“Another one?” Nani asked, her voice roughened by age.
“Yes,” Sara replied. “That’s the third one today.”
Nani looked up at the tree with a knowing expression. Her eyes, milky with age yet sharp in their own way, lingered on the branches as if searching for something only she could see.
“It remembers,” she said softly.
Sara turned to her. “Remembers what?”
“The ones who leave,” Nani replied. “And the ones who haven’t returned.”
Sara frowned. “Nani, it’s just a tree. Maybe the weather is strange.”
“Maybe,” Nani said, her lips curling into a half-smile. “Or maybe the tree knows something we don’t.”
Sara knew better than to argue. In Bangladesh, trees carried stories. Mango trees, especially. Stories of love, betrayal, longing. There were tales of trees refusing to bloom after a death, trees that bore fruit only on one side because that was where a lover once stood, trees that “cried” sap when cut on certain nights.
But this mango tree had always been strong, steady, predictable.
Until now.
Sara glanced upward again. The leaves whispered with the breeze.
It felt like a warning.
The Road from London
Two days later, without any warning at all, a white Toyota pulled up in front of the gate.
Sara was returning from the market when she saw it. She paused, shielding her eyes from the afternoon glare.
A man stepped out of the car.
At first, she did not recognise him. He seemed foreign—not just in the way foreigners looked, but in the way they moved, as if carrying a thousand invisible burdens. A travel-worn rucksack hung from his shoulder. His hair, streaked with grey, curled at the temples. His face was lined, not with age alone, but with years of thinking too much and sleeping too little.
He looked at the house as if afraid it might vanish.
Sara’s steps slowed.
Nani walked out onto the veranda, leaning heavily on her cane. She squinted at the figure by the gate.
And then, like a curtain being pulled open, recognition washed across her face.
“Arif?” she whispered.
The man’s head snapped toward her, eyes widening.
“Nani,” he said, his voice cracking.
He walked through the gate and stopped in front of her. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Nani reached out with trembling hands and held his face, her fingers searching for the boy who once climbed the mango tree faster than anyone else.
“You came back,” she murmured.
Tears slipped from Arif’s eyes. “I promised I would.”
“You promised many things,” Nani said, though her voice was gentle. “Most of which you did not keep.”
Sara stood there, breath caught in her throat.
This was the Arif she had seen only in faded photographs stuck between old books, the cousin who had left for London twenty-eight years ago and never returned. The boy her mother used to talk about—how he was the cleverest in school, how the family had borrowed money to send him abroad, how letters from him had stopped after the first year.
He had become a ghost around whom family stories were built.
And now he was standing in the courtyard.
Sara swallowed nervously. “You’re Arif uncle?”
He turned to her and smiled, a tired smile but warm. “You must be Sara.” He looked at her carefully. “Last time I saw you… you were three. You chased chickens and refused to wear shoes.”
Sara felt heat rise to her face. “People grow,” she said.
“So I see,” Arif replied.
Nani wiped her eyes. “Come inside. The house… it missed you.”
Arif looked at the doorway, his face tightening, as though memories were pushing against his ribs.
“The mango tree remembered first,” Nani added. “It began dropping fruit before their time.”
Arif froze.
Sara noticed the colour drain from his face.
The Tree and the Boy Who Left
That evening, after prayers, Arif walked into the courtyard and stood before the mango tree. The moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting shifting patterns on the ground.
Sara watched from the veranda, careful not to disturb him.
Arif placed his hand on the tree’s trunk. His fingers trembled.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Sara felt her breath catch.
Nani stepped beside her quietly. Her voice was low. “He planted that tree.”
Sara turned sharply. “He planted it?”
“Yes,” Nani said. “When he was sixteen, just before he left for London. He said that when the tree was big and full of fruit, he would come back to taste them.”
“And he never did,” Sara murmured.
“No,” Nani said softly. “Life caught him first.”
Arif leaned his forehead against the bark, as if listening to the stories hidden there.
Sara couldn’t look away. Something about him—this grieving, returning, fragile man—stirred a tenderness in her she didn’t expect.
Rain and Unspoken Things
Over the next few days, Arif settled into the room that once belonged to his parents, though he moved through the house like someone touching a wound — gently, cautiously.
Sara learned more about him.
He had worked in restaurants across London. Long nights, aching backs, endless customers. He had been married once. Divorced. A daughter—Leena—who barely spoke to him.
“London makes you grow money,” he said once, “but not roots.”
Every day, he spent time under the mango tree. Some mornings he touched the trunk. Some afternoons he sat against it and watched the clouds. Some evenings he stood there silently until the stars came out.
“If you stare at it any longer,” Sara teased one day, “it might grow shy.”
Arif smiled. “I’m trying to remember who I was before I left.”
“And are you finding him?”
“Pieces of him,” he said. “Scattered like dried leaves.”
They grew comfortable with each other. Sara found herself waiting for his footsteps, listening for his voice, wondering about the life he lived so far away.
He told her stories of London—the rain that fell without warning, buses that came late, buildings that cast long shadows. She told him about Beanibazar—the monsoons, the lanterns during power cuts, the way people in the market knew your name long before you knew theirs.
One night, rain arrived without warning—thick, warm, relentless. The courtyard filled with puddles that mirrored the moonlight.
Arif stood under the veranda, watching it.
“London rain is cold,” he said. “It bites.”
“This rain is different,” Sara replied. “It washes things.”
“Does it?” Arif asked, his voice low. “Even the mistakes you carry for decades?”
“If the heart is ready,” she said softly, “anything can be washed.”
He looked at her then—really looked. A gaze heavy with questions and pain and something else she dared not name.
Sara looked away, flustered. “I should check the cooking.”
But before she stepped inside, she glanced back.
Arif was still staring at her, the rain painting his face in shimmering lines of memory.
The Secrets Roots Keep
A week passed.
One morning, Sara woke to the sound of voices in the courtyard.
Her uncle Karim—Nani’s son, Arif’s cousin—had returned from Dhaka. Tall, stern-faced, always suspicious of anything that disrupted his routine.
“What are you doing back here?” Karim demanded, standing near the gate with arms crossed. “After all these years, you show up like you own the place.”
Arif stood calmly. “This is still my father’s land.”
Karim scoffed. “Your father died twenty years ago. You weren’t here. You didn’t come back for the burial. You didn’t even call. And now you want to claim rights?”
Nani stepped forward with surprising strength. “Karim! Lower your voice.”
But Karim ignored her.
“People who leave lose their place,” he snapped. “That’s how villages work.”
Arif looked down, shame flickering across his face. “I know I stayed away too long. But I didn’t come here to fight.”
“Then why?” Karim asked sharply.
Arif hesitated. “Because… I had nowhere else to go.”
The courtyard fell silent.
Karim’s face softened for a moment, but only for a moment. He muttered something under his breath and went inside.
Sara walked over to Arif.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
He nodded, but his voice was hollow. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t belong anywhere anymore.”
“You belong where you choose to stay,” Sara said. “Belonging isn’t a prize. It’s a place that doesn’t push you out.”
Arif looked at her with gratitude.
“You remind me of my sister,” he said quietly. “She used to talk like you.”
Sara blinked. “You never mentioned a sister.”
Arif’s jaw tightened. “Because she died.”
Sara felt cold. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded, staring at the mango tree.
“She died in the monsoon,” he said. “Floodwater came too fast. She slipped. I tried to pull her out but… I couldn’t. I left a few months later. I thought leaving would erase everything.”
Sara understood now why he stood beneath that tree every day—trees remember storms long after people forget.
The Mango That Didn’t Fall
One morning, a pale golden mango hung from the lowest branch, glowing in the soft sunlight.
Sara noticed it first.
“That one is perfect,” she said.
Arif followed her gaze. His breath caught.
“I planted this tree with my sister,” he said. “We buried a handful of mango seeds together. She said that even if we grew apart, our trees would touch.”
He walked toward the fruit.
“This is the first time in twenty-eight years that I’ve seen it hold fruit this close. The last time… she was still alive.”
He reached up and touched the mango gently, almost reverently.
“Not yet ripe,” he said. “But close.”
“Take it when it falls on its own,” Sara told him. “Trees know when to let go.”
Arif looked at her and smiled. “You’re wiser than your age.”
She laughed softly. “Or maybe I just listen better.”
They spent the day beneath the tree—Sara with her book, Arif carving something into a small piece of wood he had found in the shed.
When she asked what he was making, he said, “Something small. Something to leave behind.”
The Day the Tree Let Go
The following week, at dawn, a soft thud echoed through the courtyard.
Sara stepped outside, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
The golden mango lay on the ground, unbruised, perfect.
Arif was already kneeling beside it, hands trembling.
“It waited,” he whispered. “It waited for me.”
He lifted the mango gently as though lifting a memory. The fragrance filled the air—rich, sweet, warm like sunlit skin.
When Sara sat beside him, Arif offered her one half after cutting it with a small knife.
“You share the first fruit with someone you trust,” he said, and she felt her breath catch.
The mango tasted like sunlight and childhood and something unnameable—grief turned into sweetness.
Arif closed his eyes. Tears slipped silently down his face.
“It’s like she’s here,” he whispered.
Sara touched his hand.
“Maybe she never left,” she said.
What Roots Hold
Three days later, Arif announced he was returning to London—at least for now.
Sara felt a hollow ache inside her.
“When will you be back?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But this time… I won’t wait twenty-eight years.”
Before leaving, he stood beneath the mango tree one last time.
Sara joined him.
“I made something,” he said, handing her a small wooden carving.
It was a tiny mango—polished smooth, shaped by careful hands.
“So you don’t forget me,” he said.
Sara’s throat tightened. “I won’t.”
“And so the tree knows I’ll return,” he added with a sad smile.
He tied a small cloth around the trunk—a prayer cloth, the kind people tied when asking for protection.
“It’s for her,” he whispered. “And for me. Both of us lost things here.”
Sara placed her palm on the tree.
“And maybe found things too,” she said quietly.
Arif nodded slowly.
“Yes,” he said. “Maybe we did.”
The Departure
The taxi waited at the gate.
Nani hugged Arif fiercely. “Don’t vanish again,” she said. “My bones won’t wait another twenty years.”
Arif laughed softly. “You’ll outlive us all, Nani.”
Karim hovered awkwardly, then muttered, “Come back. Next time… stay longer.”
“I will,” Arif promised.
When Arif looked at Sara, something unspoken passed between them—something fragile, unfinished, but alive.
“I’ll write,” he said.
“I’ll reply,” she answered.
He smiled. “Good.”
As the car pulled away, Arif looked out of the window. The mango tree stood tall, its leaves catching the morning light like a blessing.
Sara watched until the car disappeared from sight.
Then she looked at the tree.
A new mango bud had appeared overnight—small, green, full of promise.
She touched it gently.
“You remembered,” she whispered.
And for a moment, the whole courtyard seemed to breathe.
Disclaimer
This story, published on mujiburrahman.com is a purely fictional work. All characters, places, communities, and events described are products of imagination or used in a fictional context. Any resemblance to actual individuals or real-world events is entirely coincidental. The purpose of this content is storytelling and entertainment only and should not be taken as factual or representative of any real person or community.
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