Venkat looked around. The sound seemed to come from the heart of the grove, where the oldest tree stood, its gnarled roots sprawling like the fingers of a giant. He slid down and tiptoed toward it, his heart thumping. There, beneath the tree, sat a figure draped in a saffron cloth, her silver hair glinting in the sunlight. She was an old woman, but her eyes were young, sharp, and knowing. In her lap rested a small bronze idol of Lord Krishna, playing his flute

In the sleepy village of Nandigama, nestled along the banks of the Krishna River in the heart of Andhra Pradesh, life moved like the gentle ripples of the water—slow, steady, and full of quiet surprises. The village was known for its sprawling mango groves, where trees heavy with fruit swayed under the golden Telugu sun. Among the children of Nandigama, none was more curious or mischievous than Venkat, a wiry ten-year-old with a mop of black hair and eyes that sparkled like the river at dawn.

Venkat lived with his grandmother, Ammamma, in a modest house with a thatched roof and a courtyard where red hibiscus flowers bloomed. Ammamma was the village storyteller, her voice weaving tales of gods, demons, and clever animals under the banyan tree every evening. But Venkat, despite his love for her stories, yearned for an adventure of his own—one that wasn’t just spun from words but lived in the dust and heat of Nandigama.

One sweltering afternoon, as the village dozed under the weight of the summer sun, Venkat slipped out of the house, his sling tucked into his pocket and a half-eaten guava in his hand. His destination was the mango grove, a place where the air smelled of sweet fruit and mystery. The grove belonged to old man Subbaiah, a grumpy farmer with a limp who guarded his trees like a king guarded his gold. Subbaiah’s temper was as famous as his mangoes, and the children whispered that his grove was enchanted, that the trees whispered secrets to those who dared to listen.

Venkat, never one to resist a dare, crept into the grove, his bare feet silent on the earth. The trees loomed tall, their leaves casting dappled shadows. He climbed the nearest tree, nimble as a monkey, and plucked a ripe mango, its skin glowing like a sunset. As he bit into it, juice dribbling down his chin, a strange sound filled the air—a low, humming chant, like the drone of a tanpura.

Startled, Venkat looked around. The sound seemed to come from the heart of the grove, where the oldest tree stood, its gnarled roots sprawling like the fingers of a giant. He slid down and tiptoed toward it, his heart thumping. There, beneath the tree, sat a figure draped in a saffron cloth, her silver hair glinting in the sunlight. She was an old woman, but her eyes were young, sharp, and knowing. In her lap rested a small bronze idol of Lord Krishna, playing his flute.

“Who are you?” Venkat asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The woman smiled. “I am Yashoda, keeper of this grove’s secrets. And you, little one, have a curious heart.”

Venkat puffed out his chest. “I’m not afraid. What’s the secret?”

Yashoda’s smile widened. “The mangoes of this grove are not ordinary. Each holds a wish, but only for those pure of heart. Eat one under this tree, speak your wish aloud, and it will come true. But beware—greed turns wishes to dust.”

Venkat’s eyes widened. A wish! He could wish for a bicycle, or a radio, or even to fly like the kites that soared over the Sankranti festival. He plucked another mango, sat cross-legged under the tree, and took a bite. The fruit was sweeter than any he’d tasted, and as he swallowed, he felt a strange warmth spread through him.

“I wish,” he said, closing his eyes, “to have an adventure like in Ammamma’s stories!”

The air shimmered, and the grove seemed to hum louder. When Venkat opened his eyes, the world had changed. The trees were taller, their leaves glowing with an emerald light. A peacock strutted past, its tail feathers sparkling like jewels. And there, by the riverbank, stood a boy no older than Venkat, dressed in a dhoti, a flute in his hand. His skin was dark as the night sky, and his smile was mischievous.

“Krishna?” Venkat gasped, recognizing the figure from Ammamma’s tales.

The boy laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. “Come, Venkat! Let’s have an adventure.”

What followed was a whirlwind. Krishna led Venkat through the grove, where the trees parted to reveal hidden paths. They raced across fields, leaped over streams, and chased a golden deer that vanished into mist. Krishna played his flute, and the notes made the flowers bloom brighter and the birds sing sweeter. They climbed the rocky hills beyond Nandigama, where Krishna showed Venkat a cave filled with glowing crystals that whispered stories of ancient kings.

But as the sun began to set, Venkat’s heart grew heavy. “I have to go back,” he said. “Ammamma will worry.”

Krishna nodded. “You’ve had your adventure, but remember this: the magic lies not just in wishes, but in the heart that seeks them.”

With a wink, Krishna vanished, and the grove returned to normal. Venkat ran home, his mind buzzing with the day’s wonders. Ammamma was waiting in the courtyard, her eyes twinkling as if she knew more than she let on.

“Where have you been, naughty boy?” she asked.

Venkat grinned. “In the mango grove, Ammamma. It’s… special.”

That evening, under the banyan tree, Venkat listened to Ammamma’s story with new ears. She told of Krishna and his playful miracles, and Venkat wondered if Yashoda and the grove were part of her tale. He never saw the old woman or Krishna again, but the grove remained his secret place. Each summer, he’d sit under the old tree, eat a mango, and make a wish—not for riches or toys, but for the simple joy of living in a world where magic hid in plain sight, waiting for a curious heart to find it.

The village of Nandigama continued its quiet life, the Krishna River flowing as it always had. But for Venkat, the mango grove was no longer just a place of fruit—it was a doorway to wonder, a reminder that in the heart of Telugu land, stories were not just told but lived.