One hot summer day, the monsoon rains were late, and the village wells were running dry. The grown-ups whispered worriedly about the crops, and Anjali’s mother sighed as she carried an empty bucket home. Anjali hated seeing everyone so sad. She decided to visit the mango tree, her favorite thinking spot

In a small village nestled between the rolling hills of India, where the sun painted the sky with hues of orange and gold, lived a girl named Anjali. She was ten years old, with bright eyes that sparkled like the stars over the Ganges River. Anjali’s village was surrounded by fields of rice and wheat, but what she loved most was the giant mango tree that stood at the edge of her family’s courtyard. It was no ordinary tree—it was said to be magic.

The tree was ancient, with gnarled branches that stretched out like welcoming arms. Its leaves shimmered in the breeze, and its mangoes were the sweetest anyone had ever tasted. The village elders told stories of how the tree had been planted by a wandering sadhu, a holy man, who blessed it with a special gift. But no one knew what that gift was—until Anjali discovered it.

One hot summer day, the monsoon rains were late, and the village wells were running dry. The grown-ups whispered worriedly about the crops, and Anjali’s mother sighed as she carried an empty bucket home. Anjali hated seeing everyone so sad. She decided to visit the mango tree, her favorite thinking spot.

She sat beneath its shade, kicking off her chappals and pressing her bare feet into the cool earth. “Oh, magic tree,” she said aloud, “if you’re really special, can’t you help us? We need water so badly.” She didn’t expect an answer, but as she spoke, a ripe mango fell from the tree and landed with a soft thud beside her.

Anjali picked it up, its golden skin warm from the sun. She peeled it with her fingers and took a big bite. The juice dribbled down her chin, sweeter than ever. But then something strange happened. As she swallowed, a tiny tingling feeling danced in her chest. She blinked, and suddenly, she heard a voice—not with her ears, but inside her mind.

“Ask, little one,” it said, deep and gentle, like the rustling of leaves. “What do you need?”

Anjali froze, her mango-stained hands trembling. “Who—who’s there?” she stammered.

“I am the spirit of the tree,” the voice replied. “Long ago, I was given the power to grant one true wish to a pure heart. Speak, and I will listen.”

Anjali’s eyes widened. She looked up at the tree, its branches swaying as if nodding to her. She thought of the dry wells, the wilting crops, and her mother’s tired face. “Please,” she said, “bring water to our village. We need the rains.”

The tree was silent for a moment. Then the voice said, “Your wish is pure. Climb to my highest branch and pluck the smallest mango you can find. Plant it in the earth, and you will see.”

Anjali didn’t hesitate. She scrambled up the tree, her small hands gripping the rough bark. Higher and higher she went, past the big, juicy mangoes, until she reached the tip of the tallest branch. There, hidden among the leaves, was a tiny mango, no bigger than a pebble. She plucked it carefully and climbed back down.

With the village watching—because by now, her brother Ravi had spotted her and called everyone over—Anjali dug a small hole in the courtyard and buried the tiny mango. She patted the soil and stepped back, holding her breath.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the ground trembled. A soft rumble grew into a roar, and from the spot where she’d planted the mango, a spring burst forth—clear, cool water bubbling up from deep within the earth! The villagers gasped, then cheered, rushing to fill their buckets and pots. Children splashed and laughed, and Anjali’s mother hugged her tight.

The tree’s voice spoke one last time. “Your heart’s kindness has awakened my gift. This spring will never run dry, as long as your village shares its bounty.”

Word of the magic spread, and soon people came from far and wide to see the spring and taste the mangoes. Anjali became known as the girl who saved the village, though she always said it was the tree’s doing, not hers. The monsoon rains arrived a week later, turning the fields green again, but the spring remained—a sparkling reminder of the day magic bloomed in their little corner of India.

Years later, when Anjali was grown, she’d sit under the mango tree with her own children, telling them the story. “It’s not just about wishes,” she’d say, handing them each a mango. “It’s about caring for others. That’s the real magic.”

And the tree, still tall and grand, would rustle its leaves as if agreeing, dropping a mango or two for the little ones to enjoy—sweet, juicy, and full of secrets only the purest hearts could unlock.