My family walking towards our orchard on a dirt path in Anjanapuram, Telangana (All Photos: Sahana Nagadala)

After years away, my mother Sindhu returned to her family’s mango orchard in rural south India – a place once filled with laughter, love, and a tree she called her own. But home didn’t feel like it used to. Though the land was unchanged, she was no longer the girl who had once loved it with all her heart, writes Sahana Nagandla.

I gripped his shoulders as the motorbike sputtered to life, coughing smoke into the humid air. He drove along a dirt path, passing flooded paddy fields and slender palm trees. The steady rocking of the bike lulled me to sleep, and I rested my head against his shoulder like I used to as a child.

“We’re here,” Ramesh murmured in Telugu.

Dark trunks and crowns of emerald leaves stretched to the horizon. Between them were rows of black soil and tangles of roots. I squinted, unsure if it looked the same as twenty years ago. Mirroring Ramesh, I slid my sandals off and stepped into the orchard. The ground molded to my feet, cool and firm. But something in the soil hesitated, as if knowing I was not the girl it once loved.

“This land has been waiting for you, Sindhu,” his voice cut through the silence, trembling just enough for me to notice.

Around me were mangos the color of gold, each larger than my hand, illuminated by shafts of sunlight. They were everywhere – on the tips of branches and hidden behind covers of green. With each step, the orchard stirred. Cousins I once knew yelled as they raced up trees, and the aroma of nectar perfumed the air. I smiled, pretending this world was still mine.

Somewhere far away, a voice cut through my daydream.

“Remember it?”

I wavered, disoriented. The orchard stilled.

“What?”

Ramesh stepped closer. “The tree,” he said.

His smile faltered at my blank expression, hurt filling his eyes.

He said it again, softer, pointing. “Your tree, Sindhu… the one you used to take care of.”

My gaze held his, confused.

“You forgot?”

Ramesh’s last word was not a question. It was a realization. He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw like he was holding something more than words. At that moment, he seemed to realize who I had become – who replaced the Sindhu he once knew. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“When we planted the orchard, there was one sick tree. It wouldn’t grow. The workers said to pluck it out. But you didn’t let them.”

He glanced at me, searching for any hint of remembrance.

“You begged them to let it live. You watered and cared for that tree every day. And somehow, it survived.”

Naked silence hung between us.

My grandfather explaining the trees in the orchard and sharing his memories of it. (Sahana Nagadala)
My grandfather explaining the trees in the orchard and sharing his memories of it. (Sahana Nagadala)

His words echoed in my mind, resurfacing forgotten memories. A small girl petting a sick sapling. A young woman – eyes filled with purpose and heart with doubts – hugging a massive trunk, bidding it goodbye.

Ramesh waited for that child to return. He waited until he could not. His shoulders, hardened by decades of tending the orchard, trembled as sobs racked him. I stepped back slowly, unable to bear the truth: that I no longer held the girl he had loved so deeply. That was what had kept me from returning all these years – not time, not distance, but fear. Fear that I had changed. Fear of facing those who still loved the person I used to be.

I looked up at the massive tree now, taller than any other. My palm brushed over the bark, letting its ridges scratch my skin. Had time washed away its memories of me, as it had mine of it? I rested my head against the giant being and listened – not with my ears, but my heart. My chest rose and fell against the strong trunk that held everything I’d left behind. I silently pleaded for it to make me remember. But even if it was yelling, wailing, I could not hear its language.

It understood this and pulsated under my palms, beating in rhythm with my heart. We leaned against each other, not understanding, but feeling. It didn’t reach for me, nor I for it, but its steady warmth seeped into my skin.

Then another warmth: strong but faltering. I sensed Ramesh’s hand hovering over my shoulder. I leaned into it and felt my brother’s arms around me. They no longer wrapped around me, shielding me from the world. But they held me strong, silently telling me he was there.

“Even if you don’t remember, Sindhu, I can never forget.”

My family taking a picture in front of my mother’s tree. (Sahana Nagadala)
My family taking a picture in front of my mother’s tree. (Sahana Nagadala)

It wasn’t just Ramesh saying it. His voice came from all around – the wind, the soil, my tree. They would never forget me.

He stayed close, brushing his hand gently beside mine over the tree. I wondered if in my absence, it had grown to understand him, and he, it.

Ramesh stepped away slowly, eyes lifting to the branches above. He brushed one to the side, then looked at me. Not asking. Just waiting. I followed his gaze and spotted it glowing between the leaves. Slowly, I reached up and plucked the tree’s offering. Without thinking, my nails tore through the soft skin of the mango, yellow fibers bursting through the seam. As its sweet nectar trickled messily over my face and arms, I filled my mouth eagerly with the ripened flesh and handed Ramesh a piece. He chewed slowly, looking between the tree and me.

I saw him exhale, as if a burden had been removed from his shoulders. He looked at me, not searching for the sister I had been, but the woman I was now. Then he smiled, a smile so true I forgot it existed. It was the smile that comforted my childhood fears and encouraged my dreams, but also masked his burdens and silent sacrifices. I smiled back.

The leaves gently rustled and the sunlight warmed our faces. At that moment, it all felt real. Maybe we three weren’t who we once were, but we were here – now, together. That would always be enough.