A little bit of green

‘Let’s get some flower pots inside,’ says N, in preparation for her birthday when she wants everything to look pretty.

She’s the only other person in the family who even notices said flower pots. Though calling them that is a bit of a euphemism given that most of them are flowerless greens. With my very limited gardening skills, all I can realistically aim for is keeping even these alive and healthy. When the occasional peace lily shows up there is much celebration.

And yet I cannot bear the thought of doing away with plants. They have been an integral part of my growing up years. No one really, who has had a thriving garden, can ever be free of its magic or of the will of creating one around them.

Whenever we are home, it’s a morning ritual of sorts for all of us to step out with our respective cups of tea and rusks, onto the verandah by the garden. The children, in all their early morning shabbiness, flop down onto the grass, lazing on it as they shed the last layers of sleep.

Our first home was in old Lucknow where houses were crowded together and gardens were few and far between. We did have a large aangan (courtyard) in the middle of the house with a huge malti creeper in one corner that reached up to the terrace.

My parents, however, are garden lovers. So a plot was bought at the back of the house and converted into a lawn. I have vague memories of them clearing the space, sieving through the rocky soil and mixing sand in order to make it rose-freindly.

They were big on roses and oh and the ones that finally bloomed were fit for a queen. The sparkling white John F Kennedy, Nehru ji’s Crimson Glory, the bright yellow Golden Giant, the peach pink purple of the Montezuma, Chantre, and Eiffel Tower, they were all gorgeous. Just the taste of these names on my tongue as I write, is making me smile.

My father picked up budding and grafting and we’d wait with bated breath for the result of each experiment.

Plucking flowers was, of course, quite out of question. However once my father let me take this huge John F Kennedy for my class teacher, Mrs D. And I clearly remember her gasp of happy amazement when I held it out to her. It’s strange, the things that get stuck in one’s memory!

When the season was through the rose plants would be pruned and a paste of vermilion and oil smeared on the stems to keep infection at bay.

While roses remained the divas of the garden, the real colour riot happened in February-March when the seasonal showed up.

Planting them was a whole different ball game. In our new house in the University campus we had massive grounds and mom would plan the planting with the meticulousness of an army general. The tall ones like hollyhocks (AliHak according to our gardener!) would go right at the back, then came the glorious dahlias and bright red salvias. Right in the front were phlox and verbena, pansies and nasturtiums. Once we even tried sweet peas. A bamboo fence was made and the creeper climbed all over it decorating it with delicate pink, white and purple blooms. That was a treat!

The lilies showed up too. Indian lilies required no effort at all. The bulbs would lie dormant all year through and then happily raise their heads when the climate turned favourable. That’s a great life-lesson, right? Wait for your time and then show up in all your glory.

As summer set in, the seasonals faded away. The choice of blooms was limited but we had flower beds lush with willowy cosmos and cheerful zinnias. And of course there were the fragrant rajnigandhas and jasmines. One of my favourite memories is that of my grandmother walking on the grass, leaving footprints in the dew which, someone had told her, was good for her feet. She’d carefully pluck the jasmines and take them away for her daily puja.

Gorgeously green kochias which still line our home during the hot months are also summer specials.

And there’s the lawn itself – luxuriantly green with the softest carpet grass, where one needs no rug, no cushion to sit on. Maintaining it though is an onerous task and weeds are always lurking around. When H and N were younger, my dad once offered them 50p for each weed they pulled out. They started out with much excitement, but soon realised what a tiresome task it was. Also, they pulled so much good grass that my dad would have fired them anyway. That certainly was a failed experiment.

With little scope for a grassy garden, here in my flat, I take solace from the few pots I have and celebrate each unfurling leaf and the rare flower that blossoms.

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