Raju and Babu were twins, but the two mango trees in their orchard were nothing alike.

Raju’s tree stood tall by the well, heavy with fruit every season. Babu’s tree grew near the fence, smaller, with only a handful of mangoes each year.

“Look how many I have!” Raju said one evening, stacking ripe mangoes into a basket.

Babu counted his own — just six. He looked away, quiet.

Their father saw his face and sat beside him under the small tree.

“Do you remember planting this one?” he asked.

Babu nodded. “It was the smallest sapling in the nursery. Everyone said it wouldn’t survive.”

“And yet, here it stands,” his father said. “You watered it through two dry summers. You cleared the weeds around it every morning before school.”

“But Raju’s tree gives so much more.”

His father picked one of Babu’s mangoes and cut it open. The fruit was small, but sweet all the way through.

“Some trees give more,” he said. “Some give less. But the care you gave this tree was no smaller than his. That part was always equal.”

Babu looked at the basket of six mangoes. They suddenly felt like enough.

That night, both brothers ate mango slices on the same plate — Raju’s and Babu’s mixed together, impossible to tell apart.