“The Mango Tree That Taught Me Growth”

They say every teacher has a story buried deep like an old wound—mine is rooted under a mango tree.

Behind our small government school in Satara, there stands a mango tree that looks like it’s been there forever. Twisted trunk, cracked bark, and arms that reach skyward as if still praying for rain. When I joined the school fifteen years ago as an assistant teacher, I used to sit beneath it during my lunch break, hoping the wind would carry away the chaos of classrooms and the weight of unsaid things from home.

It was also the place where I first met Sneha.

She was just 7. Quiet. Eyes like old tea—dark, still, and deep. She never spoke much, but she always drew. Her notebooks were filled with little sketches—trees, faces, sometimes monsters. Other teachers used to complain about her, saying she was “slow” or “a daydreamer.”

I didn’t think much of it until one day, I saw her drawing the old mango tree during lunch. It was perfect—every scar, every curve, every branch bending like a yoga pose. But what caught my breath was that she had drawn a tiny swing on one of the branches. There was no swing in real life. When I asked her why, she whispered, “Because I want to fly someday.”

That one line… it changed me. I started sitting with her more. Talking. Encouraging her. Eventually, I became her unofficial mentor, and in some ways, she became mine.

Then, the mango tree stopped bearing fruit for four years straight. Some of the staff wanted to cut it down. “It’s taking up space,” they said. “No use anymore.”

I fought them. “Just because something doesn’t give you what you expect, doesn’t mean it’s worthless,” I snapped in the staff meeting. My voice shook, but my heart didn’t. The tree stayed.

A year later, the monsoon came early, wild and thundering. And I remember walking into school one morning and stopping dead in my tracks.

There they were—tiny green mangoes clinging to the branches like little fists of promise.

That same week, I got a letter. From Sneha. She had just passed her 10th exams with distinction and got into an arts school in Pune. “I’m going to make children’s books,” she wrote. “With flying trees and girls who don’t need saving.”

I sat under the mango tree that day and cried. Not just for her, but for me, for the things we all wait for without realizing—the small fruits of patience, love, and hope.

Growth doesn’t come with a drumroll. It comes quietly, through broken branches and delayed rains, through stubborn roots and silent faith.

Just like that old tree, sometimes we have to stand tall and wait for our season to return.