Jiddu Krishnamurti and mango trees

Not far from the Ganges, near a small village in Varanasi, there was an old mango orchard. Here in the grove, every spring, clutches of yellow flowers used to herald the coming of delicious mangoes. Boys of the nearby village, Sarai Mohna, would wait for the flowers to give way to small fruits. It was a daily watch for the school boys who would pass by the grove every morning and afternoon. When mangoes would become bigger and rounder, and their fragrance would attract birds and butterflies, the boys would come in hoards, throw stones at the ripening fruits, betting who could bring down the most, and there would be a great ruckus around the grove. The scared birds and insects would stay away from this arena of stone throwers. Then one year, there were no flowers in the spring and no mangoes in the summer. The boys stared at the grove, threw some stones at the branches aimlessly but nothing fell from the branches. The mango trees had stopped fruiting. This happened year after year, and the boys also stopped walking past the grove, choosing to find a more adventurous route, closer to the river where it was easy to pick on imli trees and chill-bill, the Indian elm which produces a small fruit wrapped in wafer thin cover which made noise in the breeze. Into this silent and deserted mango orchard came Krishnamurti. He was there to see one of his dreams taking shape—a residential school, a retreat centre, a college for women, dairy farm, organic farm, a community of living and learning. One day, some one informed Krishnamurti that the mango orchard could be cut down for a new orchard. Krishnamurti, whose love for nature was profound, was not in favour of doing so. He said, let me talk to the trees. He walked into the orchard alone and began talking to the trees. He told them they should start giving fruits or they just might be cut down. Not when I am around but I am not going to be around for long. He spoke to every single tree. When spring came around next time, the trees had a surprise for Krishnamurti—they were in bloom—pale white tiny flower bunches hanging delicately between the dark green leaves. As the summer sun scorched the earth dry, the flowers turned into tiny mango buds and then grew round and big, hanging free, like rotund pendulum, from the slim branches. The orchard was in bloom—the birds and insects returned to relish the bounty. The wind carried the fragrance of the ripening fruit, and soon the boys returned, first in ones and two, and then in hoards. Krishnamurti would often walk past the orchard now alive with smell and sounds, softly whispering, keep on giving fruits.