Twenty-three years

 For about nineteen years my mother has irrigated a barren land such that it never stopped sprouting long after she left the land and moved to another place. However, what followed next gave me a vantage to conclude this piece, especially after encountering a specific writing of Ruskin Bond which invoked an epiphany and at that moment, I could see four years of struggle to write this, and the past twenty-one years of my mother’s life align in perfect symmetry to reveal a discrete constellation, and everything made sense magically.

I have spent four years with an inspiration to write this for my mother without meeting due actions to the inspiration.

‘Trees and plants always look like the people they live with somehow.’ (pg-35; A Little Book Of Magical Plants. Ruskin Bond)

My mother is quite fond of plants. However, the source or the reasons of her fondness remain inexplicable to me, if at all reasons were ever needed to be fond of something.

Somedays, I am inclined to believe that her penchant for greenery is passed to her as a legacy by her father due to her narratives. Although, I am aware that I cannot do justice to feelings should I find rationale behind it. I am rendered only to relay feelings as they exist.

My mother is an assiduous being who is resilient towards eternity. Metaphorically, Sisyphus would take a bow in admiration of her. Time neither dreads her nor wears her off. However, like everything else, not to be governed by the sway of time comes with some minor bi-products and inconveniences. Although I assure that these could be overlooked. Somehow, despite being anarchic she has a skill to adapt and an impressive socio-verbal temperament. She is sanguine, patient, and unsettlingly practical.

23 years ago, my mother married and as a consequence of which she shifted with my father. Together they occupied an abode which was sanctioned by a company on my father’s name during his service as an engineer. Meanwhile, my mother stayed at home and made it.

The infrastructure was quaint and was taken over by mosses, mushrooms, meadows, vines, and ivy. Wild bushes were sprawled across its lawn and backyard. Although, these were mown and paved because poisonous reptiles who either lost their way or in search of food could be spotted and the situation aggravated during rainy days.

My mother managed to rescue a few saplings from being mown and planted them under low raised fences. I have not been a witness of any of these. I was narrated this lore throughout my life. Even in my earliest memories, the trees were full grown. The narration would surface nearly every time someone would seek bower under the shade of trees, steal fruits, and so on.

There was a sesame tree which would uncharacteristically grow in an upside dow
n u-shape during monsoons after achieving its height, a tree of jackfruit, of cluster figs, of coconut, a pair of mango trees, and a wildfire of holy basil that did not cease to thrive which is specific to a culture in India and worshipped as divine.

It is not less than magic for me because I cannot bring myself to believe that a sown seed or planted sapling could grow into a tree because I have not been able to do it myself. As humans, we rely heavily on experiences and only that which has occurred in past seems certain and as the only possibility to us. We do not believe that which we have not experienced ever. At least while speaking for myself, I do not think that I can ever do that. It takes hope and faith. However, for once I would like to acquire this point of view of hers and see how it feels from there to have understood the mystery.

19 years later, we vacated that house and moved to a new place. The new place was in the heart of urban sprawl and somewhat still under construction. A monsoon later, we had revisited the old abode, while nobody had still occupied it. That we had spare keys, we could enter it only to find holy basil sprawled like bushes gone wild. I cannot make anything of it but at least be amazed at the fact how it pollinated to proliferate and grow after my mother’s legacy.

In the summer of 2021, after two years of moving to the heart of urban sprawl, one day the dry bushes in its vicinity caught fire. By then the construction nearby was abandoned due to shortage of funds. The source of fire remains aloof to my knowledge though it can be corroborated as a negligent action of the kind which leave forests to fume with fire. It took endeavours of several men to extinguish it. It burnt down the only plant that the place had, of castor and half of a mango tree. The castor plant was sprouting fruits when it was met with the tragedy. Then monsoon came, one of the important seasons of a monsoon-reliant country like India. It took me some months to notice that the place has not only recovered of its trauma, but the vigour of the surroundings was like never before. It was green wherever the sight could stray under the blue sky. It could be ashes that worked as manure. Even the seeds which were considered insignificant and disposed, sprouted and are laden with fruits now.

It struck me when I read Bond quote about the resemblance of plants with their human family members. My mother not only yields plants with water but her love and time. Love, which has not evidence of existence but produced from within which is why it could be challenged as non-existent, I presume. However, when it stands in the form of physical objects as these trees do, I am left awestruck. It takes a lot of things like courage, faith, patience, and so on to retain love.

How easy or difficult it is to spend the only life in believing something which is uncertain of its existence. My mother does that. Due to her deeds and Bond’s proposition, I can clearly see that the places she resides in begin to look like her as if teeming with hope.