Dr. Asha Chadha
It was in 1986 that we purchased a plot in Eswaripuri for three simple reasons: the abundance of greenery, the well-demarcated Army officers’ colonies, and—most importantly—we could afford it within our limited means. At that time, the area was considered remote. The suburban railway gates often closed as trains passed frequently, making access a challenge.
By the 1990s, we were living in a rented house in Sainikpuri, close to our plot, and had begun constructing our own home—a process that took a couple of years. My immediate neighbors were also tenants: a government engineer from IIT and his family. They had two adolescent children—a daughter in the tenth standard and a son in intermediate. The boy showed no interest in attending college, preferring to stay home and run errands while his father was busy. His mother, with limited Hindi and health issues, could not be very active.
My own son was just a four-year-old toddler, and the neighbors’ family loved playing with him in the evenings. During one such time, the boy’s mother, bedridden for a week, confided her grief: her son had stopped studying. She asked if I could mentor him back to regularity. Though I was then working as a lecturer in a degree college while simultaneously pursuing my PhD, I assured her I would try.
The boy—Shailendra—was cheerful, polite, well-mannered, and intelligent. What puzzled me was why he had given up studying. Drawing on my background in Education and Teacher Training, I conducted a diagnostic test and discovered the root cause: he carried a deep complex about the English language. In every other subject, he was above average, but this linguistic barrier had alienated him socially, leaving him withdrawn and solitary.
I asked him to attend one-hour guidance sessions daily for a month, with assignments to be completed and submitted the next day. It was a demanding schedule, but I told his mother not to worry—he would cope. And he did. He performed well in every test series I gave him, and two months later he was due to appear for entrance exams.
One evening, however, his sister rushed to my home, saying, “Bhaiyya is crying. He doesn’t want to write the exam tomorrow.” I went over and found him inconsolable.
I said, half-stern, half-playful:
“Fine, Shailendra. What will happen if you don’t write the exam? The sky won’t fall, nor will the ground slip beneath your feet. Everything will remain as it is. You can go back to your happy days, enjoy, and cry—it’s easier, right? After all, it’s only my time that was wasted—my precious time spent juggling work, classes, cooking, travel, and preparation. But that’s okay. Keep crying.”
The next day, the boy came to me with a smile: “I wrote the exam well, Aunty.”
A month later, during our gruhapravesham, the entire family attended. Soon after, the father was transferred to Agra, their hometown. Before leaving, Shailendra dug up a small pit in our yard, planted a mango sapling he had brought, and said, “You will always remember me and my achievement.”
Today, Shailendra is in his early fifties and a successful Chartered Accountant. The mango tree he planted has been more than just a reminder of him—it has been my teacher. It has given shade, hosted countless birds and their nests, and produced the sweetest mangoes each season. More importantly, it has stood as a symbol of perseverance, trust, and the life lesson that hard work always bears fruit.
Even now, when Lord Ganesha is installed under the shade of that mango tree during festivals, I feel a deep sense of gratitude. Over the years, many of my students preparing for exams—especially International Relations—would gather in its shade, listening to day-long sessions before succeeding with flying colors.
The mango tree continues to teach me: to grow, to learn, and to give. Nature provides for us abundantly; in return, we must value, nurture, and respect it. When we do, everything is truly taken care of.
