Raghu sniggered through the pain as he staggered forward. He bent to grab his crutch from the corner of his dimly lit room, where the wall paint had peeled off in blotches and the air reeked of dampness.

A loud thud broke the silence.

He reached for the wooden chair beside his bed, steadying himself with a deep sigh. Limping on one leg, he stooped to cradle his bruised right elbow. Spitting onto the floor, he muttered curses under his breath. The tiny sparrows outside chirped incessantly, needling his frayed nerves.

“Damn little monsters,” he growled, flinging his towel aside as he dropped onto the chair.

Raghu, once a forest guard, had served across the remote interiors of Karnataka. He took quiet pride in patrolling the forest lines, safeguarding the green treasure from the stealth of wood looters. The thick forest was his home-its whispers, fragrance, and rhythms. It breathed with him. It sang songs to him.

The sounds faded- without a warning.

 Everything darkened. Abruptly. Painfully.

A landslide deep in the ghats caught him off guard. Timber rained down with a monstrous force. He survived the injuries but his left leg didn’t. Crushed beyond repair, it was amputated-chipping away and then crumbling the swiftness and power he had.

It gave way to broken dreams and a wretched loneliness. Raghu owned both now, living in a small house in Kaggalipura, near the forests of Bengaluru.

From the chair by the window, he watched the tall trees canopying his backyard. It smelled like the forest. The big mango tree stood, heavy with fruits, and lured children from the neighbourhood. They came.

They rarely greeted him.

‘Gruffy old limp’, they called him.

But they came anyway- to still the sweetness dangling from the branches.

One afternoon Raghu saw them.

“Kotigale! Nanna mane bittu hogi!” he shouted, flinging crumpled papers to shoo them away.

The children leapt from the mango tree, cackling and mocking, their oversized pant pockets bulging with half-eaten fruit. One boy paused mid-leap, and stared at him, his face twisting,

“Haleya Koti!”, he retorted-old monkey.

“Kotiga!... Vanara!, Vanara sena!” Raghu bellowed, his voice cracking with fury and spittle slicing the air. He limped to the corridor, his crutch thumping against the cemented floor like the beats of a drum.

At the doorstep, he leaned down to lift the crumpled paper but lost balance and fell hard.

He tried to rise—once, then again. He had nothing to hold.

His limbs staggered. His breath stung.

And then—

A small hand clasped his.

Raghu flinched, annoyed—but his fingers pressed the tiny grip.

Their lips curled, shy and wordless.

“Koti,” the boy whispered, not as mockery this time, but with something gentler.

Raghu’s eyes blurred with tears, touched by unexpected tenderness.  The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a half-eaten mango, its skin warm and speckled.
He offered it without a word.
Raghu took it.
Together, they savoured the sweetness—
a flavour not just of fruit,
But something returned.

***

Glossary:

*Koti,, Vanara- Monkey

*Vanara Sena-Monkey army

*Kotigale Nanna mane bittu hogi- Monkeys, leave my house

*Haleya-Old

*Kaggalipura- A small village in South Bangalore