As the monsoon clouds gathered over Delhi, Aman found himself invited to a food symposium at a grand hotel near India Gate. He'd never stepped into such luxury before—crystal chandeliers, velvet carpets, cameras flashing like lightning. But Aman wasn't thinking about fame or fortune. He missed the soil under his nails and the quiet hum of the grove at night.
That evening, an elderly woman approached him after his talk. She wore a deep green sari with mango leaves embroidered along the hem. Her voice was soft, but her presence silenced the whole room.
"Your grandfather once taught me how to graft a tree with love," she said. "And now his grandson sells that love, fruit by fruit."
She handed him a small leather-bound journal. Inside were his grandfather's handwritten notes—drawings of mango blossoms, weather charts, soil recipes, and something curious: a half-finished map with a golden 'X' deep in the grove.
Back in Malihabad, driven by both nostalgia and intrigue, Aman wandered through the orchard, journal in hand. When he reached the marked spot, he dug beneath the roots of an old Langra tree and unearthed a rusted tin box. Inside lay mango seeds—but not just any seeds. These were from a long-lost hybrid his grandfather had once called Suryansh, said to ripen with the first light of dawn and taste like saffron and sunshine.
Aman planted them in secret.