"You need to talk to it," Amma said one evening, handing him a clay pot of turmeric-infused milk.
Now, at 4 AM, you will find him drawing a crooked kolam for the ants. At sunset, he sits with the tree, not to fix it, but just to listen.
The next morning, he woke to the smell of wet earth. It had rained. He walked into the courtyard with his coffee. The tree was still barren.
He started talking. Not to the tree, but to himself. He spoke of his burnout, his loneliness in a city of 20 million people, his secret desire to paint instead of code. He spoke until his throat went dry. Then he poured the turmeric milk at the roots and went to bed.
"It's perfect," she replied. "The ants don't care about perfection. They care about the offering."
The mango tree was in full, explosive bloom. Thousands of tiny green buds covered every branch. And hanging from the lowest branch, tied with a red thread, was a small, hand-painted sign. It read: "Property of Arjun. Caretaker of Roots."
