Whispers of Summer

Whispers of Summer

~ a story of mangoes, memories, and something left unsaid ~

With its white paint worn down by time and its engine humming like an old lullaby, the Ambassador drifted softly along the sandy Konkan highway. The smell of childhood and ripe mangoes filled the air within. Nisha leaned her head against the window and watched the coconut trees speed by, their shadows trying to fool her because of the heat.

Her father, Mr. Sathe, was a widowed retired educator and historian. He drove with the incredible patience of someone who knew all the twists and turns of this road. It was the same journey they used to take every summer years ago before life became too full of cities and silences.

In the backseat, nestled in an old cane basket, lay Alphonso mangoes from their ancestral orchard in Ratnagiri. Golden-skinned and fragrant, they were summer itself, breathing slowly in the heat. Every year, they came to collect them. But this time, there was something else.

A whisper.

A tug.

A secret that had waited long enough.

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They stopped by the sea at Guhagar, where the road dipped, and the land gave way to salt and sky. The sun was fierce above, yet the breeze off the waves brought a coolness that felt like a memory. Nisha went outside barefoot, allowing her toes to sink into the smooth, warm sand.

She muttered, “I thought we’d never come back here.”

Her father took some time to respond. With his arms crossed behind his back and his gaze fixed on the waves, he stood beside her. “I would, as I promised your mother.”

Nisha turned. “You never told me that.”

“I wasn’t ready. You weren’t either.”

The waves whispered over pebbles and shells. A crow called in the distance. Near a hut that sold coconut water, a dog barked. Time paused for a second as the heat shimmered.

“She used to write here,” he added. “Her little notebook with the hibiscus cover. Remember it?”

Nisha did. Her mother’s voice read poetry aloud under the old banyan tree, the air thick with the scent of mango juice and jasmine. She remembered laughter. She remembered shade.

He took a folded page out of his pocket and stated, “She wrote a letter.” “To you.”

The ink was slightly smeared, and the paper was thin. Nisha unfolded it with her hands shaking. Her mother’s handwriting danced across the page—graceful, firm, alive.

My Nisha,

If you’re reading this, the mangoes have ripened again, and the sea still sighs for stories. There is so much I never said. Forgive me for leaving too soon. But summer was always our season, wasn’t it? Your giggles in the orchard, your eyes chasing fireflies—those were my favourite verses. I long to be with you, my Nisha.

Promise me you won’t forget the scent of home. Promise me you’ll fall in love by the sea.

And if the wind ever whispers your name—listen. It will be me sending you sunshine.

Love, always,

Ma.

Like a long-delayed monsoon, the tears came slowly and steadily. She experienced a flurry of emotions as each word of the letter struck a chord with her.

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As they approached, like an old friend stretching after a nap, the rusting gates of their former Ratnagiri home creaked open. The stink was strong and alluring, and the mango trees swayed, heavy with fruit.

With her fingertips stroking the aged crimson walls, Nisha entered the courtyard.  She entered her mother’s room, untouched since her passing. The hibiscus notebook still sat on the windowsill, yellowed pages curling at the edges.

There was a bookmark in it—a dry bougainvillaea petal.

And one more poem.

When Summer leans in, with her saffron breath,

And mangoes bleed sweet gold in clay bowls,

I will return, not in form, but in feeling—

A shadow cooling your shoulders,

A whisper in your hair,

A memory you cannot name,

But know by heart.

That night, as the ceiling fan creaked above her and frogs sang in chorus outside, Nisha dreamed.

Of road trips along moonlit highways.

Of her mother humming in the kitchen.

Of a mystical figure by the sea, eternally waiting, clad in white, hair blowing in the wind.

The air smelt like earth and salt when she woke up. A mango had fallen in the courtyard. The first of the season.

She picked it up, held it to her nose, and smiled.

It smelled like love.

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Author’s Note

Some stories arrive like a summer breeze—soft, unannounced, and heavy with the scent of something lost and something waiting to be found. “Whispers of Summer” was born from memories of road trips through the Konkan coast, the fragrance of mangoes ripening in old courtyards, and the unspoken bonds between parents and children.

It is a tribute to the silences we carry, the letters we never expect, and the places that remember us even when we forget them.

To everyone who has loved and lost—and found a piece of that love in the warmth of a summer day—this story is for you.

—Seshadri, under a mango tree somewhere in June