In the heart of Palagummi, a sleepy village nestled in the lush East Godavari district of Andhra Pradesh, where the Godavari River whispered secrets to the paddy fields, lived a curious girl named Anjali. At ten years old, Anjali’s eyes sparkled like the morning dew on banana leaves, and her laughter echoed through the coconut groves. Palagummi was a place where time moved slowly, like the bullock carts creaking along dirt paths, and every corner held a story waiting to be discovered.

Anjali’s favorite place was the ancient mango grove at the edge of the village. The grove, with its towering trees and dappled sunlight, was said to be enchanted. The elders spoke of a spirit named Vana Devata, the guardian of the grove, who protected the village’s harvests and blessed the sweetest mangoes in all of Andhra Pradesh. Anjali wasn’t sure if she believed the tales, but she loved the grove’s cool shade and the way the leaves rustled like they were sharing secrets.

One scorching summer afternoon, when the air smelled of ripe mangoes and jasmine, Anjali slipped away from her chores. Her mother had asked her to fetch water from the village well, but the grove’s call was stronger. With her best friend, a mischievous boy named Ravi, she tiptoed past the grazing buffaloes and into the grove. Ravi, with his untidy hair and a slingshot tucked in his pocket, was always ready for an adventure.

“Let’s find the biggest mango ever!” Ravi declared, his eyes gleaming.

Anjali giggled. “Bigger than last year’s? That one was as big as my head!”

They wandered deeper into the grove, where the trees grew so thick that the sunlight barely touched the ground. As they searched, Anjali noticed something strange—a faint, golden glow coming from a gnarled old tree at the grove’s heart. Its trunk was wide, carved with patterns that looked like ancient symbols, and its branches sagged with mangoes that shimmered like tiny suns.

“Ravi, look!” Anjali whispered, pointing.

Ravi’s jaw dropped. “Is that… Vana Devata’s tree?”

Before they could decide, a soft breeze swirled around them, carrying the scent of mangoes and something sweeter, like honey and starlight. The glow from the tree grew brighter, and a voice, gentle as the river’s flow, spoke: “Children of Palagummi, why do you seek my grove?” Anjali’s heart raced, but she stepped forward bravely. “We… we just wanted to see the magic mangoes. Are you Vana Devata?”

The air shimmered, and a figure appeared—not tall or frightening, but a kind-faced woman made of light, with leaves woven into her hair. “I am Vana Devata,” she said, her voice like a lullaby. “This grove is my home, and its magic protects Palagummi. But the village is in danger.”

“Danger?” Ravi squeaked, clutching his slingshot. Vana Devata nodded. “The river is drying, and the crops are wilting. A greedy spirit from the mountains, Kala Bhoot, wants to steal the grove’s magic to grow his own dark forest. If he succeeds, Palagummi will wither.”

Anjali’s stomach twisted. She thought of her family’s paddy fields, the festivals where everyone shared mangoes, and the laughter of the village children. “What can we do?” she asked. Vana Devata smiled. “Only pure hearts can stop Kala Bhoot. Take one of my mangoes and plant its seed by the riverbank at midnight. But beware—Kala Bhoot will try to stop you.”

She plucked a glowing mango from the tree and handed it to Anjali. It was warm, pulsing with light, and heavier than it looked. Ravi gulped. “Midnight? That’s when ghosts come out!” Anjali nudged him. “We’re braver than ghosts. Let’s do this for Palagummi.”

That night, under a moonless sky, Anjali and Ravi crept out of their homes, the mango wrapped in Anjali’s dupatta. The village was silent except for the chirping of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl. As they reached the riverbank, the air turned cold, and a shadowy figure emerged from the mist—Kala Bhoot. He was tall, with eyes like burning coals and a voice like grinding stones.

“Give me the mango!” he roared, his claws reaching out. Ravi fumbled with his slingshot, firing a pebble that bounced harmlessly off Kala Bhoot. Anjali clutched the mango tighter. “You can’t have it!” she shouted. “This is for Palagummi!”

Kala Bhoot laughed, sending a gust of wind that nearly knocked them over. But Anjali remembered her grandmother’s stories about courage. She began to sing a song her mother taught her, a prayer to the river goddess. Her voice, clear and strong, filled the air, and the mango glowed brighter. Ravi joined in, his shaky voice growing bolder.

The light from the mango pushed Kala Bhoot back, his shadow shrinking. “No!” he howled, but the children kept singing, their voices weaving a shield of light. With a final cry, Kala Bhoot vanished into the mist. Anjali and Ravi fell to their knees, panting. They dug a small hole by the riverbank and planted the mango seed, covering it with soft earth. As they finished, the ground trembled, and a tiny sapling sprouted, its leaves sparkling like emeralds. The river, which had been a trickle, began to flow again, its waters shimmering under the stars.

By morning, the village buzzed with wonder. The river was full, the fields green, and the mango grove bursting with fruit. The elders praised Anjali and Ravi, calling them the bravest children in Palagummi. Vana Devata appeared one last time, her form fading into the sunrise. “You’ve saved the village,” she said. “The grove’s magic lives in your hearts now.”

From that day, Anjali and Ravi were heroes in Palagummi. The sapling grew into a mighty tree, its mangoes the sweetest anyone had ever tasted. Every summer, the village held a festival by the river, where children sang Anjali’s song and shared mangoes under the stars. And though Kala Bhoot was gone, the grove’s magic remained, whispering through the leaves, reminding Palagummi that courage and kindness could make even the smallest hearts mighty.