That mango tree

Mango has been my favourite fruit
Got abundant  in my orchard in childhood
But our favourite was only that mango tree
Belonged to ‘Panditayeen’ old widow lady

Whenever we went to her in mango season
She always greeted with mangoes- sweet, juicy, ripen  
But the children of village liked fresh ones
Plucked from the tree, hit by stones

It was very tall, few yards away from village
The oldest person there, didn’t know its age
We few, used to go there and sit in its shelter
Gossiped and stoned fruits as got chance favorable

We spotted ripen and plucked by throwing stones
Used to practice hitting targets, while plucking mangos
Suddenly that grandma comes with stick, shouting  
Carefully watching one of us whispers, she’s coming

We ran away, she started guessing who were they
We feared if identified would go home, the complaint
Would be reprimanded or even beaten by parents
I was the lucky chap, always escaped safe

When grown up I migrated to city for career shake
Later, she and mango tree both completed their age
I kept its reminiscence throughout my past fifty years
Wood of that same tree, has her renovated house doors