The Mango Tree That Never Bore Fruit

By Dr. Swati Chandel
— reflections from a summer long gone, and a soul still growing.

Our summer vacations were going on, and the park near the community centre was where the real magic happened.
It was always crowded—children running, shouting, inventing new games, while adults walked in slow, circular rhythms on the pavement laid out by the RWA. Despite the crowd, everyone somehow had a place. Even at eight years old, I found it fascinating—how everything and everyone fit into that little chaotic world.

Adults would walk around us like calm satellites. They didn’t stop us, didn’t interrupt. Just kept walking. Observing. Existing. Now, in retrospect, I wonder if we looked like a pack of wild gorillas to them—our energy untamed, our joy pure.

But now, when I look back as an adult, I also wonder something else: maybe those seemingly cheerful kids around me weren’t all that joyful. Maybe we were all a little lost. Maybe there was grief, or confusion, or quiet loneliness in those small hearts. I didn’t know how to name it then—but perhaps we were all carrying tiny invisible weights.

I always had this urge in me—to find something unknown. To chase answers no one else seemed to ask.
That curiosity became my companion, sometimes exhausting, often relentless. But back then, in the middle of it all, stood something grounding and still:

The mango tree.

It was old—at least a hundred years old to my child mind. Huge, generous, and deeply green. It was the center of all our games, our hiding spot, our fortress, our imaginary spaceship.

But strangely, I never saw a single ripe mango on it.
Not one.

My eight-year-old brain couldn’t understand why.
Why didn’t it bear fruit?
Why did it promise so much, and never deliver?

I never guessed that maybe it just wasn’t time.
And children, you see, don’t understand waiting.

Years passed. I grew. And the mango tree grew with me.

But I didn’t see it happening. I didn’t feel taller. I didn’t feel wiser.
I didn’t feel like anything was really changing.

Now, when I look back, I realize: just because I couldn’t see the growth, doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening.
The mango tree never seemed different, but it was changing, slowly, steadily.
So was I.

Growth isn’t always visible.
Sometimes, it’s silent.
Sometimes, it’s within.

The Wisdom the Tree Left Me With

That tree—the one that never bore fruit when I was a child—taught me something I couldn’t have learned from textbooks or teachers:

Even when things appear still, they are often becoming.

Even when we feel stuck, we are unfolding.

Even when nothing blooms, roots are deepening.

Growth is not always loud. It doesn’t always announce itself.
But it’s always happening—when you’re aligned, patient, and present.

Today, I know there’s something in me that’s growing.
Even if I can’t always feel it.
Even if no one else can see it.
Just like that mango tree—heavy, wise, and waiting.

Have you ever had a mango tree in your life? Something that quietly grew with you, even when you didn’t notice?
I’d love to hear your story in the comments.