The Mango Tree Between Us
In the small riverside town of Chandipur, everybody knew everybody's business. The tea seller knew who owed money to whom. The barber knew whose son had failed math. And the old women on the balconies knew who was in love long before the lovers knew it themselves.
Which was exactly why Arman Rahman and Maya Chatterjee falling in love was a terrible idea.
Their houses stood side by side, separated only by a tall brick wall and one ancient mango tree whose branches stretched lazily over both rooftops like a gossiping aunt. The Rahmans and the Chatterjees had been neighbors for twenty years and enemies for nineteen of them.
The fight had started over something small—water drainage during monsoon season. It had grown into arguments about property lines, then about noise, then about "values" and "principles," until nobody quite remembered what they were actually angry about. But they were committed to it. Passionately.
Arman, twenty-two, engineering student, chronic overthinker, and part-time poet (a secret he guarded carefully), had grown up hearing, "Don't talk to that Chatterjee girl."
Maya, twenty-one, literature major, sharp-tongued and fearless, had grown up hearing, "Stay away from that Rahman boy."
Naturally, they obeyed. For years.
Until the mango.
It was late June, the season when the mango tree turned generous and reckless. One golden afternoon, a particularly ambitious mango detached itself from a high branch and fell dramatically—not into either yard—but perfectly on top of the dividing wall.
Arman climbed up first.
At the exact same time, Maya appeared from the other side.
They stared at each other.
He blinked. "You're stealing our mango."
She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me? It fell on the wall. Neutral territory."
"It was growing on our side."
"It was leaning on ours."
They both reached for it.
Their fingers touched.
Time, as dramatic novels often claim, did not exactly stop. But it did hesitate. Just a little.
Arman quickly pulled his hand back as if the mango had turned electric. Maya didn't.
"Well?" she challenged.
He cleared his throat. "You can… take it."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"
He shrugged. "You look more dangerous."
She burst out laughing.
That was the beginning.
After that, the mango tree became their silent accomplice. It was tall enough to hide them from street view and leafy enough to muffle their voices. They started meeting there accidentally-on-purpose. First to argue about fruit ownership. Then about music. Then about which books were overrated.
"You think tragic endings are romantic?" Arman once asked, balancing on the wall.
"Of course," Maya replied. "Happy endings are suspicious."
"That's the most depressing thing I've ever heard."
"You're an engineering student. You calculate happiness in percentages."
"And you're a literature student. You glorify suffering."
"And yet," she smirked, "you're still here."
He was.
Their conversations grew longer. Sunsets faded into starry evenings before they noticed. They spoke about everything they were not supposed to speak about: dreams of leaving Chandipur, fears of disappointing their families, secret ambitions.
Arman confessed he didn't really want to join his uncle's construction business. He wanted to design eco-friendly houses, maybe even study abroad.
Maya confessed she didn't just want to teach literature like her parents assumed. She wanted to write a novel.
"A forbidden love story?" he teased.
"Please," she scoffed. "That's cliché."
But her smile lingered.
They both knew how impossible this was. Their families barely exchanged civil words. If either household saw them talking, it would be like pouring oil on an already dramatic fire.
Which made it thrilling.
Forbidden love is dangerous. But it is also addictive.
They began inventing excuses to go to the roof at the same time. Maya would hang clothes that were already dry. Arman would "check the water tank" five times a day.
One evening, as rain threatened in the distance, Maya arrived with a notebook.
"What's that?" Arman asked.
"My novel."
"You're actually writing it?"
She nodded. "Every great story needs conflict."
"And we are?"
She tapped her pen against her chin. "We're… complicated."
"Is that your polite word for disaster?"
"Maybe."
Thunder rolled overhead. A sudden gust of wind sent loose pages flying. One sheet slipped from her notebook and fluttered into Arman's yard.
He climbed down to retrieve it before anyone could see.
When he returned, he was quiet.
"You wrote about me," he said softly.
Maya's confidence faltered. "It's fictional."
"The character's name is Ayaan."
"Very different."
"He's an engineering student who hates statistics and secretly writes poetry."
She bit her lip.
"You think I'm brave," he continued, scanning the page. "You wrote that I'm braver than I believe."
"You are," she whispered.
That was the moment the teasing shifted into something heavier.
Rain began to fall, slow and steady. They didn't move.
"Maya," he said, his voice suddenly serious, "this isn't safe."
"I know."
"If our parents find out—"
"They will."
He sighed. "You're not helping."
She stepped closer on the narrow wall, balancing carefully. "Arman, when have I ever wanted safe?"
He looked at her—really looked. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The intelligence in her eyes. The way she refused to shrink.
He realized something terrifying.
He was already in love with her.
The confession came weeks later, during a power cut that plunged the neighborhood into darkness. Chandipur without electricity was a different world—quieter, softer, intimate.
They met under the mango tree, guided by moonlight.
"My mother is looking for a marriage proposal for me," Maya said casually.
Arman's stomach dropped. "Oh."
"Oh?" she repeated.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Something dramatic."
He ran a hand through his hair. "I can't exactly climb over the wall and announce that I'm in love with you."
She froze.
He froze.
"Well," she said slowly, "are you?"
The question hung between them like the humid night air.
"Yes," he admitted.
Her breath caught. "That wasn't very dramatic."
"I'm an engineer. We prefer direct statements."
She smiled, but her eyes were shining. "Good. Because I'm in love with you too."
They didn't kiss immediately. This wasn't a movie. They simply stood there, overwhelmed by the enormity of what they had said.
Then, impulsively, she reached for his hand.
And somewhere inside both houses, a door creaked open.
A flashlight beam cut through the darkness.
"What are you doing there?" Maya's father's voice thundered.
Chaos followed.
Shouting. Accusations. Arman's mother appearing with a shocked expression. Maya being pulled back. Arman being ordered down.
The next morning, the entire neighborhood knew.
The Rahmans blamed the Chatterjees. The Chatterjees blamed the Rahmans. Old grievances resurfaced like unwanted relatives at a wedding.
Arman was forbidden from going to the roof.
Maya's phone was confiscated.
The mango tree stood silent, leaves rustling helplessly.
Days passed without seeing each other. For the first time, the wall felt taller than ever.
But love, inconveniently, does not disappear just because it is ordered to.
Arman did something unexpected.
He wrote a letter—not to Maya.
To both families.
He described how their feud had lasted so long that nobody remembered why. He wrote about the mango tree that had grown peacefully between them for decades, roots tangled beneath the soil of both houses. He wrote about how ridiculous it was that fruit could cross the wall but kindness could not.
Then he wrote the truth: that he loved Maya, not to insult anyone, not to rebel, but because she made him braver.
He slipped copies of the letter under both doors.
Silence followed.
Then discussions.
Then arguments.
Then something unfamiliar: reflection.
Maya's mother, who secretly read romance novels at night, was the first to soften. Arman's younger sister, dramatic and persuasive, declared she would boycott all family dinners if they didn't "at least consider being reasonable."
It wasn't immediate forgiveness. It wasn't cinematic approval.
But the hostility cooled.
One evening, weeks later, Maya was allowed back on the roof.
Arman was already there.
They didn't rush toward each other. They just smiled—careful, hopeful smiles.
"My father wants to talk to you," she said.
"That sounds terrifying."
"It is. But he didn't say no."
"And your mother?"
"She asked what kind of poetry you write."
Arman laughed in disbelief.
The mango tree swayed gently in the evening breeze, as if satisfied.
It took time. Apologies were awkward. Dinners were tense. But slowly, the wall stopped feeling like a battlefield and more like… just a wall.
One afternoon, months later, both families gathered in the shared courtyard for the first time in years. Tea was served. Jokes were exchanged—cautiously at first, then more freely.
A ripe mango fell dramatically from the tree and landed in the middle.
Everyone stared at it.
Then Maya's father sighed and said, "Split it."
Laughter erupted.
Arman glanced at Maya. "Neutral territory?"
She grinned. "Shared custody."
Their love was still technically forbidden—traditions don't evaporate overnight—but it was no longer impossible.
And sometimes, that is enough.
Years later, when Maya finally published her first novel, it was indeed a love story.
Not tragic.
Not entirely easy.
But honest.
And dedicated to the boy next door who once surrendered a mango and accidentally started a revolution.