RichDrama
The Dramatic Work of Rich and Joyce Swingle
The one point of friction was the old mango tree in their courtyard. The tree was massive, probably a hundred years old, and bore the sweetest Dasheri mangoes Arjun had ever tasted. But that year, the tree had not flowered. It stood barren, a skeleton against the harsh summer sky.
"You need to talk to it," Amma said one evening, handing him a clay pot of turmeric-infused milk. The one point of friction was the old
He started talking. Not to the tree, but to himself. He spoke of his burnout, his loneliness in a city of 20 million people, his secret desire to paint instead of code. He spoke until his throat went dry. Then he poured the turmeric milk at the roots and went to bed. It stood barren, a skeleton against the harsh summer sky
But something else had changed.
Amma was sitting on her chatai (mat), laughing. She wasn't looking at the tree. She was looking at him. Not to the tree, but to himself
Humoring her, he took the clay pot. That night, under the moonless sky, he sat on the gnarled roots. He didn't chant mantras. He didn't pray. He just sat, placing his palm on the rough bark. For the first time in years, he did not check his phone.