Nira And The Missing God of Magic : Part 2 Episode 1

THE ELECTION OF THE MANGOES : Part 1

 The Painted Orchard

Summary: Aamganj’s candidates sell sweetness, tradition, and impossible promises, while exhausted trees reveal that roots understand the orchard’s true needs better.

The yellow road carried us into Aamganj just after noon, when the sun hung overhead like a brass plate and every wall, tree, basket, bullock cart, and surprised buffalo had been covered with election posters. Some posters were pasted so thickly that the walls appeared to be wearing winter coats. One buffalo had three candidates across its back and looked politically undecided because its tail kept voting for all of them.

VOTE FOR KACHCHA KUMAR! HE WILL RIPEN THE FUTURE!

VOTE FOR RAJA RASILA! SWEETNESS IN EVERY HOME!

VOTE FOR ACHAR DEVI! SHE WILL PRESERVE TRADITION!

A procession of mangoes marched past in white caps, beating spoons against tin plates.“Long live the fruit of the people!” they shouted. A pumpkin followed at the rear, whispering, “I am not a mango, but the cap was free, and nobody checks membership after lunch.”

In the central orchard, thousands of fruits hung from branches while speeches thundered from a stage made of packing crates. Drums boomed, parrots repeated slogans without understanding them, and volunteers distributed badges large enough to hide small disagreements. The first candidate was Raja Rasila, a broad, golden mango polished until he reflected sunlight into the audience’s eyes. He promised to make every citizen sweeter by law.

“Under my leadership,” he declared, “all sourness will be abolished!” The crowd cheered, although several tamarinds looked alarmed. “What will happen to lemons?” I asked. The orchard became silent enough to hear a worm chewing. Raja Rasila smiled. “Lemons will receive opportunities to reconsider their attitude.”

Next came Achar Devi, a mango preserved in a glass jar with mustard oil, chillies, and a determined expression. Two assistants carried her carefully because she considered shaking a form of revolution. “Change,” she announced, “is the first symptom of decay. Under my rule, every citizen will remain exactly as they were on the happiest day of my childhood.” “How old are you?” I asked. “One hundred and twelve monsoons.” “Were all the citizens alive then?” “That,” she replied, “is not my fault.”

The third candidate was Kachcha Kumar, a small green mango wearing an enormous turban that arrived several seconds before the rest of him. He promised ladders to the moon, free umbrellas for fish, two Sundays every week, and a department for distributing complimentary applause. Chhataram approved warmly of the umbrella scheme. Mangaldas studied the manifesto. “No budget, no schedule, and no definition of fish.” “That is why it is visionary,” Kachcha Kumar said. Professor Bhokambol ate one corner of the manifesto, adjusted his six pairs of spectacles, and announced, “Excessively spicy, with a weak conclusion.”

We showed Kachcha Kumar the medicine bottle containing the blue door’s hiccup. The silver bubble bounced against the glass like an impatient moon. “Are you the king who has never ripened?” I asked. “I am not yet king,” he said. “But I have already ordered a crown, a throne cushion, and an portrait showing me taller.” He appointed us his Committee for Unexpected Advice. Our first duty was to watch him promise a golden palace to every worm. “Where will you get that much gold?” I asked.

“From the Golden Palace Development Department.”

“Where will they get it?”

“From the Department of Gold Procurement.”

And where will that department—”

“Please,” Kachcha Kumar interrupted. “Too many questions spoil a promise before it has time to become tradition.”

That evening, mysterious workers arrived carrying paint buckets, ladders, and instructions written in invisible ink. They painted laddus on empty branches, blue rivers across dry soil, and golden palaces on tree trunks. They also painted smiling clouds above cracked wells and healthy leaves over diseased bark. By dawn, the orchard looked prosperous from a considerable distance and sticky from nearby.

“See?” cried Kachcha Kumar. “Development!” A squirrel climbed a painted mango and bit the wall behind it. “My tooth has become a mural,” she complained. Raja Rasila distributed perfume bottles labelled ESSENCE OF SWEETNESS. Anyone who criticised him was sprayed until they smelled agreeable. One old guava sneezed for an hour and accidentally praised three policies.

Achar Devi ordered young saplings locked inside museums so they could not grow differently from their ancestors. Each sapling received a plaque explaining what kind of tree it was expected to remain. Meanwhile, the mango trees themselves looked exhausted. Their leaves drooped beneath posters, banners, loudspeakers, and promises nailed directly into bark. An old tree bent towards me until her branches formed a green roof above my head.

“Child,” she whispered, “nobody asks us anything.”

“Do the fruits not speak for you?”

“Fruits speak of sweetness, price, size, shine, and glory. Roots speak of water.”

I knelt beside the cracked earth. Beneath the soil, the roots were holding a secret meeting. Their voices travelled through the ground like muffled drums.  “No rainwater channels.” “Too much paint.” “Branches overloaded with banners.” “Promises nailed into bark.” “Three committees, no water.” A tiny root said, “We may have to stop sending juice upward.”

“That would make every mango fall,” I said. “Perhaps falling is the only way fruit remembers the tree.”