Well, we don't really have a garden. Just a little space with a collection of plants in pots (about 80% are aloe vera, 10% motia, the rest are varieties that are in between dying and drying out). And my two money plants, which I've had since forever and have grown amazingly from the little branches my mother filched for me from our cranky neighbour's garden. I've grown up caressing their leaves and pulling out weeds from the roses and chasing the skinks (this crazy thing, if I am correct) which like to hide under the pots sometimes. On sunny days, I would make an open tent for myself by hanging a blanket across the laundry lines. I have a tumultuous love-hate relationship with warmth. I'd like to wrap it around me like a blanket. Imagine how great it would be to have a blanket of warm water to snuggle in during the winter. Provided you don't get wet, of course.
Anyway, our garden has waxed and waned, died and regrown and fruited over the years. Currently, it is flourishing. A little neem tree, a bush of tulsi, some raat ki rani, the aloe vera and lemon tree. And my money plants, always constant. In a way, I think these plants are like me. Some have died and come back, there are new shoots and varieties, and then there's the faithful, familiar elements, in which I can curl and rest before trudging out into the world. Maybe that's why I am the person in the family who prefers to stay outside the most and tend to the plants. We are drawn to things that reflect us.
-spirare
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