When the gardener falls in love with your plants

It was one of my customary sessions of animated arguments with my gardener over the upkeep of the garden. Anybody who heard our conversation could easily conclude that it was hardly a discussion of equals. He was the superior one, and he left no stone unturned to drive that point home.

I had been asking him to chop down an old ficus plant that had unnecessarily grown into a tree, but he would not listen.

If he was an expert in biodynamics, I too was an ardent worshipper of nature. We both had divergent views regarding the weeding, pruning and grafting of plants. It was rare when he would agree to my suggestions. So, to find a middle path, we would slog it out through a series of discourses that would sometimes be very draining.

Maali ji, as we used to call him, had been with us for a decade now. He somehow wielded a certain right over all the plants in the house. He knew precisely which corner of the lawn needed a re-touch, and where the spots with maximum sunlight were for the plants to be placed in. He would often come and rearrange the flower pots in the whole house. They would sometimes barge in our entrance way, making us manoeuvre our steps around them. I would get annoyed at the liberty he would take. It was difficult to convince him otherwise. He had his own ideas about what would look good in the lawn.

With the advent of winter, we were searching for new seasonal seedlings to be planted in the flower beds. I wanted a whole row of golden yellow marigold in the driveway. The specialist shook his head in disagreement, saying they wouldn’t thrive well in that area. Before I could think of an alternative, the judge, jury and executioner went ahead and planted a whole line of petunias. This unilateral decision of his did not go down well with me. I was offended by the fact that he had not felt the need to take my consent. An argument ensued which ended on his leaving the job in a huff.

Weeks passed and there was a lull in the garden. All the morning haggling had vanished. There was no one to argue with. Too much of peace was disturbing, too.

The winter sun had made the petunias bloom. There was a riot of colours in the driveway. A winged visitor had made a little nest in the old ficus. I sorely missed the grand old gardener, but was too proud to call him back.

One day when I returned from work, I stumbled upon a flower pot in my way. My happy heart knew Maali ji was back. My husband had sensed my feeling of loss and had convinced him to join back. Before I could thank my husband, he said something which is still ringing in my ear, “Don’t forget that sometimes even gardeners fall in love with plants they tenderly rear.”

I WOULD GET ANNOYED AT THE LIBERTY HE WOULD TAKE. IT WAS DIFFICULT TO CONVINCE HIM