Ananya sat on a rock, thinking. She remembered the mango and pulled it out. Its glow pulsed softly. “Maybe… we share it?” she wondered. She broke the fruit open, its juice dripping like honey. The moment they each took a bite, a warmth spread through them, and the ground trembled. From the trees, the baby langur appeared, followed by its family. Dozens of langurs poured out, chattering and pushing against the boulder. With one final heave, it rolled away

In a sun-dappled village in Karnataka, nestled between the green folds of the Western Ghats, lived a girl named Ananya. At ten years old, she was known for her curious eyes and a laugh that danced like the Kabini River. Her village, Kodlipura, was famous for its mango groves, where trees heavy with golden fruit swayed under the warm breeze. But one grove, at the edge of the village, was different. The elders called it Aja’s Grove and whispered that it was enchanted. No one dared to pick its mangoes, for strange things happened to those who tried.

Ananya, however, wasn’t one to heed warnings without proof. One morning, with her parrot-green dupatta fluttering, she slipped out of her mud-walled house, her friend Kiran trailing behind. Kiran, a lanky boy with a knack for fixing broken kites, was nervous but loyal. “Ananya, what if the grove is magic?” he muttered, clutching a stick.

“Then we’ll find out!” Ananya grinned, her braid bouncing as she marched toward the grove. The air grew cooler as they neared, and the trees seemed to hum. The mangoes here were unlike any other—plump, glowing like tiny suns, and smelling so sweet it made their mouths water.

Ananya reached for a low-hanging fruit, but before her fingers touched it, a gust of wind swirled around them. Kiran yelped as leaves spiraled into the shape of an old woman, her silver hair shimmering like moonlight. “I am Aja, guardian of this grove,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “These mangoes are not for the greedy. Prove your heart is pure, and you may take one.”

Ananya’s eyes widened, but she stood tall. “We’re not greedy! We just wanted to taste one. What do we have to do?”

Aja smiled, her wrinkles deepening. “The grove is thirsty. The stream that fed it has dried, and my magic alone cannot revive it. Find the source of the stream in the hills and unblock it. But beware—the path is tricky, and only kindness will guide you.”

Kiran gulped, but Ananya nodded. “We’ll do it!” Aja vanished, leaving a single glowing mango at their feet. “For strength,” her voice echoed.

The two friends set off toward the hills, the mango tucked safely in Ananya’s cloth bag. The path was steep, lined with thorny bushes and slippery rocks. A peacock strutted past, its tail feathers glinting, as if cheering them on. But soon, they heard a faint cry. A baby langur clung to a branch, its leg caught in a vine. Kiran hesitated. “We don’t have time, Ananya!”

But Ananya climbed up, her hands scratched by thorns, and freed the langur. It chattered gratefully before scampering off. “Kindness, remember?” she said, brushing off her palms.

Higher they climbed, until they reached a cave where the stream once flowed. A massive boulder blocked its mouth, and no amount of pushing budged it. Kiran groaned. “Now what?”

Ananya sat on a rock, thinking. She remembered the mango and pulled it out. Its glow pulsed softly. “Maybe… we share it?” she wondered. She broke the fruit open, its juice dripping like honey. The moment they each took a bite, a warmth spread through them, and the ground trembled. From the trees, the baby langur appeared, followed by its family. Dozens of langurs poured out, chattering and pushing against the boulder. With one final heave, it rolled away.

Water gushed out, sparkling under the sun, tumbling down the hill toward the grove. Ananya and Kiran cheered, their faces sticky with mango juice. As they followed the stream back, the langurs leaped alongside, their tails curling like question marks.

When they reached Aja’s Grove, the trees seemed to stand taller, their leaves shimmering. Aja appeared again, her eyes twinkling. “You’ve done well,” she said. “Your kindness revived the grove, and for that, you may each take a mango—forever blessed.”

Ananya and Kiran each picked a fruit, their hearts full. Aja raised a hand. “One more gift.” She touched their foreheads, and a warm glow settled over them. “You’ll always find water when you need it, and kindness will light your way.”

Back in Kodlipura, the village buzzed with wonder. The stream now flowed through Aja’s Grove, and its mangoes were shared with all. Ananya and Kiran became legends, not for their bravery, but for their hearts. On hot afternoons, they’d sit under the grove’s shade, telling stories of langurs and magic to wide-eyed children. And if you listened closely, the trees seemed to whisper along, their leaves rustling with secrets of Karnataka’s enchanted hills.