How a garden can reinvigorate the weary soul

All my working life, I have been travelling for unspecified lengths of time. With two children, this meant much advance planning on the home front — from school Sports Day and dentist appointments to checking if we had enough toor dal to last till my return. But once I crossed the threshold and left for the airport, all my worries vanished. I had a Micawberish feeling that everything would fall in place. My husband would do it all (He did too!) If not, so what?  

I rarely called home. Never worried about my loved ones being hit by asteroids or chicken pox. My sense of being connected needed nothing more than dropping a few postcards.  I concentrated on absorbing what I saw and experienced wherever I was — Kalatop Forest in Himachal or a SAARC conference in Colombo. The only exception was a desperate STD call from New Delhi to find out if my son, a true blood Tamil, had cleared Hindi in his Plus Two examinations.

The last two years have witnessed a drastic change. I call from Chennai airport before I leave for Chicago or LA,  and continue to text and call through my performance tours which may last a month or more. Not only husband and daughter, but watchman and daily help.  My husband’s “Why can’t you let us know whether you are alive or dead?” has now changed to “Do you have to let us know you are alive quite so frequently?” 

Why this sea change? Two years ago after a heart attack and an angioplasty, I felt less physical and more mental weariness.  What could I do to perk myself up? Reading, writing, music, films? They are part of my routine anyway. Then I remembered how playwright Vijay Tendulkar had once remarked, “Growing plants revives you”. If the single money plant struggling to breathe on the window sill in his 12-sqft Bombay flat study could keep Tendulkar going, the idea was worth a try.

Next morning, I rushed to a nursery to get a carload of plants for my fourth floor terrace. I chose oleander, ixora, frangipani, hibiscus, plumeria, threw in a champa and a lemon shrub, too. 

How was this leafy largesse to be transferred from car to rooftop, and replanted from plastic bags after the pots were filled with soil? That’s when our Driver Balu came into his own. His dour face and whine were replaced by chirpy smiles as he took charge of Mission Terrace Garden. Watchman Arvind’s round-the-clock glazed look vanished, as he carried with a light step heavy bags of organic soil. Together, they filled the pots, inserted the plants into the prepared hole, arranged everything “artistically”, even trailing a creeper on a protruding waterpipe. I stood like Noorjahan in Shalimar, smiling graciously.

As he worked, Balu explained in his deep-south Tamil how the yard in his “native” village was a riot of flowers, the hibiscus so phenomenal that it should get into the Guinness Book of records. Not to be outdone, Arvind fired his pahaadi shaili at me, describing how in his Himalayan hamlet, spring flowers cast rainbows on the meadows. Selvi who skipped up with a broom to sweep the mess, asked why is Amma wasting money, why not grow brinjal and tomato? Wisely arriving after all the work was done, building manager Ravi beamed on the scene and mused aloud, “If we had a little cow here, we won’t have to buy milk.” Clearly, this was nostalgia for his birthplace and cattle herding clan. My husband exclaimed, “Perfect for morning walks!” and continued to perambulate on the road.

However, I have got into the habit of waking with the birds and watering the plants as dawn breaks. I walk, exercise and do pranayama as the petals open. Oh yes, my green friends have been generous with flowers — pink, red, orange, yellow, blue, magenta…May be because they enjoy plays — I rehearse my dialogues in thunderous volume before these silent spectators.

There are surprises. I never knew that the vegetable waste I throw into the pots can make papaya and pomegranate plants spring up. If I run out of chilli, I can race up and pluck them off what I thought was a weed, and season my sambar with methi leaves too!  

Nowadays, when I call home from Bengaluru or London, even before I say hi, my loved ones shout, “Plants safe, watered every day.” And the last time I was away my husband sent me not texts, but photographs — champa and frangipani bursting into bloom!

The author is a playwright, theatre director, musician and journalist