Good Morning, what's flowering today?
Radhika Bhirani
It's therapeutic to find a story in every plant. Or to dwell upon something that they speak to you about.
On the rare days that I wake up early morning, I like to sit out in the balcony all by myself, sipping on a hot cup of masala tea, and observe the plants. One fine morning, a soft pink geranium spoke to me. About career. Clusters of dainty blooms keep flowering in one spot and then in another -- denoting how while you bloom where you're planted, you have to find your own direction to blossom. That it's not always necessary to continue flourishing in one spot. And that movement is important to keep blooming bright.
What do your plants say to you?
-- rbhirani@gmail.com
-- In between the barrage of Whatsapp sermons wishing a 'good morning', photographs from the family members' personal gardens are a soothing wake-up sight for sleepy eyes every morning... errrrr.... for some!
Shades of green bring serenity to a mind clouded by the complexities of life. And the pops of pink, purple, peach, red, orange and yellow pep up the heart with a hope of a better today and tomorrows.
What green fingers my lovely family and their gardeners have! On days there were even pictures of pumpkins and strawberries from my mother's terrace garden, or guavas, tomatoes, brinjals, bottle guards and more from my aunts' and uncles' gardens, all signifying new life at a time when death talk filled the social media space.
Flowers, I have realised especially since the lockdown saga happened to life in 2020, have a real effect on mood and on life.
For me, a pink bougainvillea plant that I bought when a visit to a nursery was still possible last year, seems to be deciding my mental space these days. Every morning, when I wake up, it's my first instinct to peep out of my window to see if a new leaf or flower has bloomed. Those little patches of bright pink brighten up my face. If wilted, it brings gloom. As a novice gardener, it pains me to witness leaf loss that leaves a lush green plant, brown and brittle. But being able to revive it and to see it flower again is a joy unmatched.
"Murjha kar phir khil jaane waale ko... Baazigar kehte hain." As filmy as it gets, it's a thought that struck me after I saw my bougainvillea plant today. Often now, I tend to draw anomalies between the life cycle of a plant and life itself. The process of blooming, withering and blossoming again are reflective of the crests and troughs that you and I may go through in the journey of life... that there will be an up before a down, and a down before an up.
Flowers seem to give that hope. And I may be wrong, but I am guessing that apart from simply the beautification of a space we ought to be locked up in, that is a part of the reason why a whole lot of balconies and home gardens ended up getting a green or greener face-lift in the middle of a pandemic. It gives, as many would agree, a sense of 'sukoon'.
The golden shower of the alluring Amaltas on one side, and the scarlet spread of the graceful Gulmohar on another across the street, lend poetic inspiration in these times, from afar.
Closer home, a single, stray Syngonium leaf that was randomly planted in a worn-out pot, has turned most beautiful and lush with multiple trailing and climbing vines that one finds hard to tame. A hibiscus plant gifted by my aunt, gives me immense happiness whenever a vivid red flower blooms, even if for a day.
For me, a pink bougainvillea plant that I bought when a visit to a nursery was still possible last year, seems to be deciding my mental space these days. Every morning, when I wake up, it's my first instinct to peep out of my window to see if a new leaf or flower has bloomed. Those little patches of bright pink brighten up my face. If wilted, it brings gloom. As a novice gardener, it pains me to witness leaf loss that leaves a lush green plant, brown and brittle. But being able to revive it and to see it flower again is a joy unmatched.
"Murjha kar phir khil jaane waale ko... Baazigar kehte hain." As filmy as it gets, it's a thought that struck me after I saw my bougainvillea plant today. Often now, I tend to draw anomalies between the life cycle of a plant and life itself. The process of blooming, withering and blossoming again are reflective of the crests and troughs that you and I may go through in the journey of life... that there will be an up before a down, and a down before an up.
Flowers seem to give that hope. And I may be wrong, but I am guessing that apart from simply the beautification of a space we ought to be locked up in, that is a part of the reason why a whole lot of balconies and home gardens ended up getting a green or greener face-lift in the middle of a pandemic. It gives, as many would agree, a sense of 'sukoon'.
The golden shower of the alluring Amaltas on one side, and the scarlet spread of the graceful Gulmohar on another across the street, lend poetic inspiration in these times, from afar.
The leaves of the white Sadabahar, planted in a pig-shaped pot, play a little peekaboo by rolling up when they are thirsty, and rolling out nice and green when quenched. The curry leaves grow bit by bit everyday. The basil leaves keep playing hide and seek. And the jade in a pot in the shape of a bewildered owl, looks like a disheveled hairdo, the kinds men and women have had to deal with in lockdown times!
It's therapeutic to find a story in every plant. Or to dwell upon something that they speak to you about.
On the rare days that I wake up early morning, I like to sit out in the balcony all by myself, sipping on a hot cup of masala tea, and observe the plants. One fine morning, a soft pink geranium spoke to me. About career. Clusters of dainty blooms keep flowering in one spot and then in another -- denoting how while you bloom where you're planted, you have to find your own direction to blossom. That it's not always necessary to continue flourishing in one spot. And that movement is important to keep blooming bright.
What do your plants say to you?
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