By Poorva Trikha
My father had a thing for plants.
I still remember how he bought a piece of land
and on it, he grew rows full of gladioli,
white radishes, spring onions and brinjals.
He taught us kids how to sow corms and seeds,
revealing the magic of the soil. Not only that!
When the flowers began to blossom and radishes
were ripe to be unearthed, he would teach us
how to gently pull them out, washing them
at once with water from a tap in the corner.
Slicing them crosswise, he’d make a plus
and would coat them with salt (a small
paper packet always in his pocket),
then hanging them upside down on a wire line
that stretched beneath the bright Indian sun.
As we waited, he made us imagine where
our respective rooms would be once the house
began to be built on that land. We basked under
the sun near the small basketball net and built castles
in the air together – my brother and I, assuming ourselves
to be the prince and the princess respectively of our dad’s
imaginary kingdom. Beside us lay a line of white radishes
with lush green leaves looking like gardens gnomes fresh
out of a pool, dripping water or shedding tears,
depending upon the mood of the viewers. I can still recall
the taste of those crisp salt-treated radishes
that we chewed on leg by leg!
Before long, that plot was sold.
Could God have foreseen the land he shaped
carved into fragments, territorialized, bought,
sold, and fought over in wars of greed?
So it was, we were told, that the plot had to go
to pay for a house with no space for a garden. That is
when my father decided to put a floor over another
on top of the first and ordered a crane to pour soil on
the fourth floor, where he later grew grass and
gladioluses; radishes were nearly impossible. But
we had ample coriander, mint, okra and soft grass to
sink into. Soon after, that house had to be sold too.
He went from plot to plot, house to house,
renting or buying or selling - but what stayed with him
was the love for the plants that he nurtured. This one time,
the last in fact, he rented a cramped one room set with a
mini kitchenette. Living far from us, in another city,
he placed a few small pots right outside the window,
growing whatever he could. He visited us with his
three brinjals, handful of coriander and four and a half
lady fingers; the flowers, alas, had to go.
Much like God gathered water to make way for land,
crafted by the circumstantial waters, Life shapes bodies
- fertile and capable of great flora.
His earthen body scape, rooted in goodness and
abounding in vitality, promised a rich harvest.
All he bore was love. In his poetic mind, verses
forever bloomed (I can still trace them from his
handwritten diary) – a rich legacy of thought.
Each day in his presence blossomed like one of his
self-grown flowers, powered by his heartfelt laughter,
impeccable sense of humour and a face so pleasant that
the sun bowed down to kiss it often.
Like I said, my father had a thing for plants.
I, the fruit he thought sweetest, gather seeds
from his memories, now writing the tale of her roots,
planting gardens full of gladioli in his name,
where worded birds come on the wings of poesy,
singing songs of love.