Garden tale

    Gardening a tale

   

  Gardens have been havens of escape. Remember the ‘Secret Garden?’ Or the Eden Garden from where Adam and Eve were banned? And they pined for it ever after? Looking for their lost innocence?

   So what is it about a garden that sets it apart from other places? One that it is an open space and you can just be in communion with nature. Seeing a new bud open, a fruit ripen or just the interplay of nature is de-stressing. One can watch the squirrels, birds and insects enthralled. You are in harmony. You know each one’s role. You also know and accept the cycle of life. Thus I think of the performers in Central park in NY. They act, dance sing and are happy with the applause. So you release your stress and pains. Gardens are the best open-air theatres. There is a trend nowadays towards holding musical sessions in large gardens. The environment is soothing, after long hours being stuffed inside offices and houses the soul can breathe again.

 All of us have our secret gardens in our minds where we go to escape the routine pressures of life. There’s a cane swing on which I languidly rock and stare at the beautiful painting nature enfolds for me every second, a new one to hold me mesmerized. The blazing sun filtering through the leaves of the tall Badam tree and the ancient gnarled Neem tree managing to scorch the green grass was what I remember of my Jodhpur garden. My maali Shiv Kumar would water the grass thrice a day to protect it from the unrelenting sun. The money plant leaves had entwined themselves on the Neem tree’s trunk and flourished in it’s shade. Most flowers had wilted in the heat except the hardy bougainvilleas. They were a riot of pinks and purples climbing all over the Bel tree (wood apple, Aegle-marmelos).

 Yes, how can one forget the wonderful round fruit of Bel. It’s juice cooled the stomach and mind. Truly a divine fruit! All of us were waiting for the gods’ to have mercy on us. The heat was unbearable. The wild hot winds called ‘loo’ would blow spraying fine dust and sand all over, causing the trees and plants to shrivel up and even old Ashoka trees burnt out leaves were a silent testimony to the sun god’s cruelty. Every thing would be coated with dust and soon we were enveloped in a blinding thick sandstorm. It would rage on for an odd number of days according to folklore. We waited patiently as the dust pall traveled up to Delhi causing complete shut-down of air-traffic.

Finally the gods’ relented and the sky was overcast with grey-clouds. The breeze that blew was laden with a promise of heavy showers.  I saw the elegant Ashoka tree sway with the sudden strong gust. The breeze gathered strength and soon all the trees were rocking in anticipation. I looked up in anxiety will the wind blow away the clouds? In reply some more clouds joined in and I loved the way the sunlight dimmed by the black clouds made the green trees radiate in a shade that’s difficult to capture. Truly nature is the greatest artist!

Yes it thundered and poured causing puddles in the lawn. The trees looked refreshed as if they had just stepped out of the bath. I think there is really no way an artist would be able to paint the delight of the first monsoon showers! I am eternally grateful to be able to share the intense pleasure with my friends the old trees, Neem, Badam, Amla, Imli, Nagchampa, Bottle brush, Ashoka not to mention the myriad potted plants and surprisingly even my cacti. They appeared lush green and sprouted succulent leaves instead of the usual thorns.

As the rains continued, new life sprouted up almost magically. Everyday there would be new leaves or buds proclaiming a renewal of life. The never say die spirit. Yes new kinds of insects found their way into our balcony and the mosquitoes found a fresh lease of life. So sitting after sunset meant braving the lizards who lazily eyed their preys as well. Chirping birds, frogs’ croaking and crickets’ calls added to the happy cacophony.

 One evening peering into my potted palms; I saw two shadowy figures vanish rather abruptly. They were Mr. and Mrs. Mongoose out for a pre-dinner stroll. Rains makes every one of us venture into unknown areas?

 As the winter sun grew milder my garden was ablaze with colour. The huge colorful Chrysanthemums in shades of white and giant sized Dahlias- in vibrant red, yellow, maroon colours were a sight to soothe the sore eyes. Rows of sweet-peas, tall pink Hollyhocks, Nasturtiums, Dog flowers, bright red Poppies; they are still etched clearly in my mind. My garden won the best garden prize of the district five years in a row. So I asked the flowers are you proud that you have been declared the most beautiful ones in Jodhpur?

The Sunflowers beamed and said, “No Mamma, we will wither away after some time. We have no idea that we are called the best. Our job is to attract the flies so that our pollination will take place and the fruits and seeds are made and the cycle of life carries on. We have no time to boast and preen and make others envious”

“Are you so serious about life? I thought only we had problems of growing up finding a job getting married and then old.”

They smiled and waved me on…

My mind remains on the picture of the squirrel on the tall sunflower swaying in the breeze nibbling at the seeds. How our maali was so annoyed with these creatures. Destroying his hard work.

    The bougainvilleas withered away as nature had planned them to. So when I whispered to them, “Will you miss me? Because I will miss you all terribly when we are transferred.”

They replied in a chorus, “Mamma we would have withered and dried up before you are gone. We have no time for idle regrets.” Yet I still miss them, knowing that some new and more luxuriant form will trail over the railing of my roof.

The tall badam tree shedding its unripe nuts thanks to the parrots and other birds. Did they mind? No not really some still survive and may get propagated. If not then aren’t you worried that your species might die out?

So what? That’s also a rule of nature. You can only do as much as you are programmed to do. So why worry? Here men worry if they don’t get sons. They feel their name will be wiped out. So they marry again and create complications. The Badam tree dropped a hard nut on my head…