Garden

I have a small nook in my apartment that I have dedicated to exercise my green thumb. As an incidental analysis of my capabilities, I am no plant killer but it has been my observation that plants seem to be happier when they are elsewhere. Well, I have a reasonably good understanding of plant anatomy and chemistry, I was even good at biology in school and also, I wanted to be a doctor – so if a plant could read my stellar CV, it would hire me. But not the plants in my garden. They don’t grow as much in size, often get infected and don’t even start me on the flowering. And, it is not like I haven’t done anything about it. I often hold motivational talks with them, set them clear goals and breathe down upon them with consideration so they get enough C02 - typical, class A, management stuff. I have even tried to shame them by pointing them to my next door neighbor with blooms of envy, and that didn’t go well (there was a nasty rumor that one of the cacti tried to uproot itself, hush). It is almost like all other plants are self driven, go getters, doing a hundred push-ups every morning on one twig, and mine are hanging out in the back alley, updating their Facebook status.

Truth is that I do have a very matter of fact relationship with my plants. I know some folks who pamper them with organic plant food, classical music, yoga (plants can be pretty agile) and what have you. Not me. I water them, scowl at the bugs, poke around the dirt a bit, pick out dead leaves, discuss their growth progress and it is then adios for the next week or three. I like giving them their space to do – whatever it is that they do. But then when I come back, all eager to see my efforts bear fruit, and, they look at me all dull, mildly discolored and sometimes with odd shaped white colored bugs – panicky hand wringing ensues (mine). I drink some water, throw some on their faces, give them a hard talk and shake my head at their failure to deliver. But they just look at me back, all quiet and, am pretty sure, menacing.

A few months ago, I gave up. Completely. My flowering plants were barren, creepers were sporting an eerie white goth look and the cacti (not the dead one) looked prickly. Word got around, and my friendly neighbors began whispering behind my back (as friendly neighbors are wont to) about the need for a gardener. “You mean, like Me?” “No, not you - a professional Gardener”. That hurt a bit, I admit. But trooper that I am, I went and got myself the local Gardener. A shifty looking fellow, with a fondness of hurting the feelings of amateur gardeners trying their hand at a small patch of terrace garden.

The Gardener was neither impressed by my "garden" (borrowing his air quotes) nor with my casually strewn 'Good House Gardening' magazines. He was appalled that I never sang to them and sternly rebuked my casual attitude towards parenting – I think he meant my plants. In summary: he tut-tut-ted, shed a tear, mumbled, smirked, laughed sarcastically, asked me to stop talking and turned into a man of action. He cooed and sang to the plants while he re-potted them with cart loads of organic potting soil and rainbows; I tried to be participative by interjecting his ritual with curious exclamations, which of course, he either ignored or grunted a response to. The only logical segue to this event could be - regular brief visits from The Gardener that meant a gala of organic fertilizer, singing and a lot more cooing - which it was. I have no shame in admitting that now I own a nook that hosts The Gardener's garden, which I pay him to maintain. But hey, the plants look a lot healthier now and I get to show them off (mostly skipping out the back story). I could do with less condescension though.