The evening breeze swayed through your garden as you wandered quietly along the path. A soft rustling came from behind the old mango tree. You turned, and there they were—three adivasi women, caught in the golden light of dusk.

The tallest, with a calm yet watchful gaze, was Anaya. She stood with her hand raised toward the ripe mangoes above, her bangles glinting faintly. Beside her, the playful Meera clasped her hands, her eyes darting between the fruit and your face, half-nervous, half-daring. The youngest, Kavita, smiled gently, her head tilted as if she were trying to read your silence.

For a moment, none of them spoke. Then Anaya lowered her hand, her voice soft: “We only wished for the sweetness of your mangoes. Forgive us if we have trespassed.”

Meera touched Anaya’s arm and whispered, “He does not seem angry…”

Kavita’s eyes sparkled as she added, “Perhaps he will share them with us.”

They waited, watching you, their expressions a mix of shyness and curiosity. The mangoes above hung heavy, glowing gold against the green leaves, as if inviting you.