One by one, they squeezed through the tiny door, which stretched just enough to let them pass. Inside, they found themselves in a dazzling grove, not unlike their village, but brighter, greener, and filled with wonders. Mango trees lined a sparkling stream, their branches heavy with fruit that glowed like lanterns. Butterflies the size of kites fluttered about, their wings painted with colors no one had ever seen

In a sun-drenched village in Andhra Pradesh, nestled between fields of golden paddy and swaying coconut palms, stood an ancient mango tree. Its gnarled branches spread wide, offering shade to the children of Kothapalli village. The tree, known as Mango Amma to the villagers, was said to be older than the village itself. Under its leafy canopy, ten-year-old Lakshmi and her younger brother, Ravi, spent their afternoons, dreaming up adventures.

Lakshmi, with her quick wit and bright eyes, was the leader of their little gang, which included their friends Sita, a shy girl who loved to draw, and Vamsi, a boy who could whistle any tune. Every day after school, the four would race to Mango Amma, their bare feet slapping against the red earth paths that wound past mud houses with thatched roofs. The air smelled of jasmine and roasting chilies, and the distant chime of temple bells mingled with the cawing of crows.

One sweltering afternoon, as the children sat munching on raw mangoes sprinkled with chili powder, Ravi noticed something peculiar. “Look!” he whispered, pointing to a knot in Mango Amma’s trunk. It wasn’t just any knot—it shimmered faintly, like a star caught in the bark. Lakshmi, always curious, pressed her finger against it. The knot pulsed, and to their astonishment, a small wooden door, no taller than a toddy bottle, creaked open in the trunk.

The children gasped. Sita clutched her sketchbook, and Vamsi stopped whistling mid-tune. “Is it… magic?” Ravi asked, his eyes wide as mangoes. Lakshmi, ever bold, peered into the dark opening. A faint glow flickered inside, and a warm breeze carried the scent of ripe fruit and something sweeter, like jaggery syrup. “Let’s find out,” she said, her voice steady despite her racing heart.

One by one, they squeezed through the tiny door, which stretched just enough to let them pass. Inside, they found themselves in a dazzling grove, not unlike their village, but brighter, greener, and filled with wonders. Mango trees lined a sparkling stream, their branches heavy with fruit that glowed like lanterns. Butterflies the size of kites fluttered about, their wings painted with colors no one had ever seen. In the distance, a peacock strutted, its tail feathers shimmering like a rainbow after a monsoon shower.

A soft voice broke their awe. “Welcome, children,” it said. They turned to see a figure woven from vines and blossoms, with eyes like dewdrops. “I am Amma, the spirit of the mango tree. You’ve found my grove, where the heart of Kothapalli lives.” The children stared, too stunned to speak. Amma smiled. “Long ago, this village was born from a single seed I planted. But now, it needs your help.”

Lakshmi found her voice. “Help? What’s wrong?” Amma’s petals drooped slightly. “The village well is drying up. Without water, the fields will wither, and Kothapalli will fade. Only you can find the Jala Mani, a gem hidden in this grove that can restore the well.”

The children exchanged glances. Vamsi puffed out his chest. “We’ll do it!” Sita nodded, clutching her sketchbook for courage, and Ravi bounced excitedly. Lakshmi, already thinking like a leader, asked, “Where do we start?”

Amma pointed to the stream. “Follow the water to the Crystal Cave. But beware—the path tests your hearts.” With that, she dissolved into a swirl of petals, leaving the children alone.

They followed the stream, which gurgled like it was singing a lullaby. The path wasn’t easy. First, they faced a rickety bridge over a chasm, where winds howled like a storm over the Bay of Bengal. Lakshmi held Ravi’s hand, and together they crossed, step by careful step, while Vamsi whistled a brave tune to keep their spirits high.

Next, they reached a maze of thorny bushes. Sita, usually quiet, noticed patterns in the thorns that looked like the kolam designs her mother drew at home. She sketched a path in her book, guiding them through without a single scratch. Ravi, who loved riddles, solved a puzzle carved into a stone gate, where they had to arrange pebbles to match the phases of the moon.

Finally, they reached the Crystal Cave, its walls glittering like a starry night. In the center, on a pedestal of roots, lay the Jala Mani, a gem that pulsed with blue light. But as Lakshmi reached for it, a shadow loomed—a giant crow, its eyes glinting with greed. “The gem is mine!” it cawed, flapping its wings.

Lakshmi stood firm. “This belongs to Kothapalli!” she shouted. The crow lunged, but the children worked together. Vamsi whistled a shrill note, startling the bird. Sita threw her sketchbook, distracting it. Ravi tossed a handful of pebbles, and Lakshmi grabbed the gem. The cave rumbled, and the crow vanished in a puff of smoke.

Back in the grove, Amma reappeared, her petals glowing with pride. “You’ve proven your courage, wisdom, and teamwork,” she said. She took the Jala Mani and pressed it into the ground. The earth trembled, and a spring bubbled up, its water clear and sweet.

The children blinked and found themselves back under Mango Amma’s branches, the tiny door gone. They ran to the village well, shouting with joy. Water sparkled at its bottom, higher than it had been in years. The villagers gathered, marveling, as Lakshmi told them a story of adventure—though she left out the magical parts, calling it a “hunch” that led them to dig near the tree.

That evening, Kothapalli celebrated with a feast of dosas, sambar, and mango lassis. The children sat under Mango Amma, munching happily. Ravi whispered, “Will the door open again?” Lakshmi grinned. “Maybe. But for now, our village is safe.” Sita sketched the glowing grove, and Vamsi whistled a new tune, one that sounded like the stream’s song.

As the sun set, painting the sky in shades of mango and saffron, Mango Amma’s leaves rustled, as if whispering a secret only the children could hear: “The heart of Kothapalli is in you.”