“Is there absolutely no way, Papa?” pleaded Sanju, glancing up at the spreading mango tree. He was standing beside his father and uncle who were seriously discussing the property they had inherited. It had been divided equally between them and they had decided to tear down the old dilapidated house and build separate houses on their individual portions.
The mango tree stood on Sanju’s father’s portion. But the tree wasn’t the problem. It was that nobody, except Sanju, thought the tree was worth saving. His uncle dismissed his concern with “You can plant as many mango trees as you want.”
“You can get a variety of mangoes in the market,” added his father, “but in the years to come when you inherit the house I plan to build, you will understand its value.”
Childhood memories
Yes, he could plant mango trees and the market was overflowing with mangoes and a house was invaluable. But, whenever Sanju thought about the mango tree, memories of his childhood spent with his grandfather came rushing back.
Like the time when, as a little boy, he couldn’t reach the juicy ripe mangoes. Watching him leap up and down below the dangling yellow fruit, Dadaji would hoist Sanju onto his shoulders. As he filled his t-shirt with fresh mangoes, Dadaji would tease, “Enough Sanju! These ageing shoulders can just about support your weight; not the added weight of a ton of mangoes.”
He’d grown up watching cheeky squirrels play hide-and-seek among the leaves and colourful woodpeckers peck out worms from its trunk. The black-hooded oriole often chose to perch on the mango tree to sing its sweetest song. And the tang of the green mango chutney made him drool. The thought of losing all those precious memories and imagining how Dadaji would have felt if he knew the tree was going to be chopped down made Sanju’s heart ache.
The next day, his distress was written all over his face. The moment the lunch bell rang, his best friend Radhika sat down next to him, opened her tiffin box and asked, “Is something bothering you, Sanju?” That was enough to open the floodgates. Sanju burst into tears and told her everything.
Help at hand
“There might be a way around,” offered Radhika. “My baba is an architect whose job is to solve such problems. People can’t go on hacking down trees to build houses, lay pipelines and construct roads.” Sanju listened, as Radhika told about instances where mature trees had been preserved by tweaking the construction plan. “Where there is a will, there is a way,” she smiled. Sanju’s eyes lit up as he returned her smile.
As soon as he reached home, Sanju explained to papa that a house could be constructed without felling the mango tree. “Radhika’s father is an architect. She offered to bring him over to discuss the plan with you,” he said, adding that the last option was to transplant the full-grown tree in case there was no other way.
Papa was not totally convinced. “I will not compromise on the beauty of my house,” he said firmly.
Luckily, the architect’s clever and creative plan to keep the mango tree as part of the landscaping and build the house around it worked and Papa didn’t have to compromise.
“Do you mean that we can save mature trees if we are careful to site the building and avoid damaging the roots when laying the foundation and utility lines?” Sanju asked.
Radhika’s father nodded with a smile. “Actually we can save our mature trees if more think like you, Sanju,” he said.
Now Sanju couldn’t wait for the next mango season. He’d be able to pluck ripe mangoes from his bedroom window. And he’d promised Radhika a basket of mangoes too.
