Mugdha in the Tree

Mugdha waited.

And waited.

The pond, just moments ago rippling with movement, was now eerily still. Birds chirped in lazy rhythm. A dragonfly skimmed over the water. But of the man—this stranger—there was no sign.

She squinted, leaned forward slightly behind the neem tree. Still nothing.

Her curiosity gnawed at her.

"Kahan gaya ye aadmi? Doob gaya kya? Mar gaya toh?"
("Where did this man go? Did he drown? Is he… dead?")

Against all logic and propriety, she huffed and looked up at the mango tree beside her.

A memory flashed—of childhood afternoons, climbing trees in her old frock, racing boys to the highest branch, plucking raw mangoes with her bare hands. That was before her world had narrowed to household duties and marriage talks.

But her body hadn’t forgotten.

She tucked her dupatta tighter around her chest, placed her cloth bag carefully on the ground beneath the tree, and hoisted herself up onto the lowest branch. The bark was familiar beneath her fingers—rough, honest.

Like a lithe jungle cat, Mugdha climbed higher, each branch groaning under her but not breaking. She moved quickly, nimbly, pausing once she reached a dense cluster of leaves that gave her the perfect vantage point.

And there—finally—she saw him.

Akhand was still in the water, floating on his back, arms spread wide, face turned to the sun like he belonged to the earth and sky both. A half smile hovered on his lips, as if something had finally settled inside him.

He wasn’t a ghost or a criminal or a land-hungry outsider like the villagers suspected.

He looked… peaceful.

And for some reason, that annoyed her.

“Yeh toh picnic mana raha hai… aur main pagal jaise yahaan chhupi hoon.”
("He’s enjoying a picnic… and here I am hiding like a fool.")

She pouted, adjusting herself on the branch, her bangles clinking softly.

Below, Akhand sighed and slowly moved toward the shore. He stepped out of the pond, water dripping from his body, and reached for his jeans. He dried off briefly with his towel, then pulled them on, the fabric sticking slightly to his damp skin.

But Mugdha didn’t see any of this.

She was busy talking to herself.

“Bari Maa toh kaat ke rakh degi agar der hui. Ab toh nikalna chahiye.”
("Bari Maa will chop me into pieces if I’m late. I should leave now.")

She started to climb down—but her foot landed on a half-broken branch.

Crack.

The world tilted.

She barely had time to yelp—“Arre!”—before gravity yanked her down.

The Crash

Akhand had just stepped under the shade of the mango tree, shaking water from his hair, when—

Thud.

“Oof!”

Something soft, something heavy, something alive crashed right into him, knocking him flat on the ground.

His head hit the grass. His arms flailed. And when he opened his eyes—

There she was.

Mugdha.

A wild creature of red ghagra, green dupatta, bangled wrists and startled eyes—splayed across his chest like a forgotten forest fairy who had fallen from the sky.

Her hair spilled over his shoulder, her nose just inches from his.

He groaned in pain, squeezing his eyes shut.

She didn’t move.

Because in that breathless second, she was staring at him.

His face—wet and handsome and unexpectedly young. His jaw clenched from the fall. But his eyes, once they opened, were sharp and confused and…

Beautiful.

Mugdha’s heart thumped so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

Akhand blinked up at her, irritation flickering.

“Tum… aap... kahan se gir rahi thi?”
("You… where did you fall from?!")

She couldn’t answer.

She just kept staring at him, like he was some rare thing she had uncovered—something forbidden and glowing.

Finally, Akhand frowned deeper and grabbed her shoulders gently but firmly.

“Hat… neeche utro.”
("Move… get off.")

She scrambled back, cheeks burning, breath tangled.

Akhand sat up slowly, wincing. His jeans were now muddy again. His hair was a mess. And the clean bath he’d just taken was wasted.

He stood, brushing the grass and grit off his legs with an annoyed sigh.

“Perfect. Do ghante se naha raha tha… aur yeh mila reward.”
("Spent two hours bathing… and this is my reward.")

Mugdha stood beside him, guilty and awkward, trying not to laugh.

“Main… bas dekh rahi thi… ki aap… doob toh nahi gaye.”
("I was just… checking… that you didn’t drown.")

Akhand narrowed his eyes at her, chest rising and falling, breath still catching up from the fall. His shoulders were tense. His brows knit.

But then, something softened.

Just slightly.

Maybe it was the absurdity of the situation. Or maybe it was the way Mugdha stood there—barefoot, wind-blown, flushed from embarrassment—like a secret the earth had just decided to reveal to him.

He looked at her more closely now.

Her face wasn't like the others in the village. There was fire in her jawline. Defiance in her posture. And that ridiculous pout still clinging to her lips like she hadn’t realized the mess she’d just caused.

"Aur check karne ka tareeka aur koi nahi mila tha?"
("And you couldn’t find a better way to check if I drowned?")

Mugdha crossed her arms, annoyed now that her panic had passed.

"Main toh bas... mango ke liye chadhi thi."
("I just climbed… for mangoes.")

Akhand raised a brow. "Aam ke liye?"

(For Mango?)

"Haan." she said, lifting her chin. “Bachpan se chadhte aaye hain. Aap jaise sheher ke log kya samjhenge.”
("Yes. I’ve been climbing since childhood. City people like you wouldn’t understand.")

He let out a sharp breath—was that a laugh?—and shook his head.

“Theek hai. Mango hunter. Ab neeche aa gayi ho toh chalo ghar bhi jao.”
("Alright, mango hunter. Now that you're down, go home.")

Mugdha bristled. “Aapko kya hai? Aapke baap ka jungle hai kya?”
("Why do you care? Is this your father’s forest or something?")

Akhand gave her a look—equal parts amusement and warning.

“Nahi. Par meri maa ka zameen ho sakta hai.”
("No. But it might be my mother’s land.")

That stilled her.

For a second, Mugdha just looked at him—really looked. His words struck something she didn’t fully understand, but she felt it anyway. A slight ache somewhere under her ribs.

She bent quickly to grab her cloth bag, brushing the dirt off the side, and adjusted her dupatta.

“Jo bhi ho… mujhe der ho rahi hai.” she muttered. "Bari Maa mujhe…"

(Wahtever it is…i am getting late..- Bari Maa will-)

She stopped mid-sentence. Why was she even explaining?

Akhand watched her silently as she began to walk off.

But after just a few steps, Mugdha turned around.

“Waise…” she said, voice louder than needed, "Aap doob jaate toh main bachane ke liye thi."
("By the way… if you had drowned, I would’ve jumped in to save you.")

He smirked faintly.

“Acha? Pehle toh aap aam tod rahi thi.”
("Really? I thought you were picking mangoes.")

Mugdha narrowed her eyes.

“Aapke jaise log sirf poochhte hain. Main karti hoon.”
("People like you just talk. I act.")

And with that, she turned and walked away, her anklets—finally back on—singing a proud rhythm with every step.

Akhand stood under the tree, staring at the swaying branches above.

For the first time since coming to the village, he smiled.

It wasn’t wide.

It wasn’t long.

But it was real.

After She Left

Mugdha’s form disappeared into the tall grass and morning haze, her red ghagra flaring behind her like a flash of flame, her silver anklets leaving a trail of soft jingles.

She didn’t look back.

Not even once.

But Akhand stood still under the mango tree, watching her until even the sound of her footsteps had faded into the breeze.

And then—

He chuckled.

A quiet, surprised sound.

The kind that slips out when something cracks your chest open without warning. The kind that says: What the hell just happened?

He ran a hand through his wet hair, still amused, still a little stunned.

“Bachchi jaise bhaag rahi thi…”
("She was running like a little kid…")

He shook his head to himself, eyes softening.

For all her sharp words and fierce posture, there was something innocent in the way she had fallen—literally and metaphorically—into his morning.

Something chaotic, wild… but unguarded.

He crouched to pick up the towel he’d dropped in the confusion and glanced one last time at the tree she’d tumbled from. A few mango leaves fluttered down, lazy and unbothered, like the tree had seen it all before.

Akhand let out a slow breath, eyes lifting to the sky, now fully bright with sun.

He took the shirt from the rock and wear it. He has no wish to go back to the pond. He will bath other time, now he is getting hungry.

He hadn't come to this village expecting anything except old land records, memories, and some forgotten history. But now, there was a girl who climbed trees like a rebel and crashed into his life without apology.

And somehow, that made the dust of the village feel… less heavy.

Akhand turned to leave, but something on the ground caught his eye.

A small cloth bag—hand-stitched, with a fading marigold print and a broken loop of thread on one side. It had been tucked under the tree, likely forgotten in the commotion.

He crouched, picked it up.

It was surprisingly light, but something inside clinked softly—camphor, vermilion, maybe turmeric. Temple items. Women’s things…An Ankel.

He turned it over in his hand, then glanced once toward the path Mugdha had vanished down.

“She left in such a hurry,” he murmured to himself.

For a second, he debated leaving it there.

But something tugged at him—a quiet instinct, not logic.

So he slung it on his hand and walked on.

At the Haveli – Mugdha Returns

The old iron gates of the haveli creaked as Mugdha slipped inside, her heartbeat still wild—though now more from fear than from falling on strangers.

The courtyard was alive with clanking utensils and the faint smell of ghee, but it was the voice that made her freeze at the threshold.

Kamini Devi.

Her Bari Maa.

Sharp as ever, already lashing out.

“Poochho isse… Kusum! Apni beti se poochho kaha thi itni der tak? Bazaar gayi thi ya shringar ke liye chhup chhup ke kahin aur?”
("Ask her, Kusum! Ask your daughter where she was all this time. Was she at the market, or hiding somewhere for beauty rituals?")

Mugdha stiffened. Her mother, Kusum, stood with her eyes lowered, hands nervously wringing the end of her dupatta. The timid calm to Kamini’s storm.

“Bari Maa, main…” Mugdha began, stepping in, dust still clinging to her ghagra.

(Bari Maa…i-)

Kamini’s eyes narrowed like a hawk spotting weakness.

“Dekho kaise aa rahi hai. Jaise koi  rajkumari.”
("Look how she walks in. Like some princess ...")

Kusum looked up, voice trembling. “ jiji… bachhi hai. …”
("She’s just a girl… …")

“Bachhi?” Kamini scoffed. “Shaadi ke liye ladki dekh rahe hain log, aur yeh jungle mein ghanti maar ke ghoom rahi hai! Kis muh se jaungi samdhan ke ghar?”
("A girl? People are looking for brides, and she’s wandering the jungle like a cowbell! With what face will I meet our in-laws?")

Mugdha clenched her fists, eyes burning.

Not with shame.

With anger.

But she held her tongue.

Not now.

Not in front of her mother, who already bore enough for both of them.

She stepped forward and placed her hands together. “Maafi chahti hoon, Bari Maa. Dair ho gayi. Par saamaan toh laya hoon…” she stopped suddenly.

(Sorry Bari Maa.. i got late but i brought thing-)

The bag.

Her eyes widened.

It wasn’t with her.

Panic flared in her chest, but she didn’t show it.

“…woh niche gir gaya tha.” she lied quickly.
("It must’ve fallen somewhere.")

Kamini snorted. “Toh ab kapoor aur haldi ped pe ugengi?”
("So camphor and turmeric will grow on trees now?")

Kusum stepped between them gently. “Main naya le aati hoon. Mugdha thak gayi hogi.”
("I’ll go get fresh items. Mugdha must be tired.")

Kamini didn’t respond—just turned with the rustle of her heavy saree, disappearing into the inner courtyard like a storm leaving wreckage in its wake.

Mugdha exhaled sharply, turning to her mother.

Kusum’s eyes were full of quiet concern.

But Mugdha shook her head. “Main theek hoon, Ma.”

She didn’t mention the fall.

She didn’t mention the stranger.

Or the bag.

Not yet.

By the time Akhand reached the house—the one rented to him by the kind stranger—the cloth bag was still clutched tightly in his hand.

His thumb absently traced the faint embroidery along its edge: an “M,” hand-stitched, now faded with time.

Mugdha.

He didn’t know her name yet, not truly. But somehow, he knew this bag belonged to her.

And he had a feeling—he’d see her again.
Soon.

He stepped inside, quietly placing the bag on the side of the table. He’d return it to her when the time came.

Turning away, he opened the packet of bread and bananas he had picked up from the market. Just as he was about to eat, a knock came at the door.

He opened it to find the same man who had rented him the room, standing there with a warm smile and a steaming plate of food.

“Take it. My wife made this for you, babu—dal baati churma.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary—” Akhand began.

“Never say no to food,” the man interrupted, grinning.

Akhand nodded, accepting the plate.

He sat down and ate slowly, savoring the warmth of the food—and, for the first time in a while, the feeling of being looked after.

Sneak peek- Chapter 8

"Chori,Yeh roti hai? Ya Rajasthan ka naksha?"
("Girl,Is this a roti? Or the map of Rajasthan?")

Mugdha said nothing. Her hands moved in silence, shaping the next ball of dough.

"Kya karenge tumhare sasural waale? Kya yeh roti khaenge? Ya tumhe wapas bhej denge thali mein saja ke?"
("What will your in-laws do with this? Eat it, or send you back on a plate?")

Kusum stood in the corner, chopping coriander slowly. Her hands trembled, but her lips remained sealed.

Kamini didn’t stop.