Flora
By Shanai Tanwar
The girl had grown up watching Nani water plants in her balcony. In the heat and humidity that characterized Delhi’s summer afternoons, she had watched Nani tend to her ever-growing garden with such care that even the summer loo could not bring her spirits down. Nani would tuck the loose end of her sari into her petticoat’s waistband, lean over the blistering hot black railing, and bring monsoon to all the flora at once with a yellow hose pipe.
Nestled with a book in her Nana’s rocking chair, the girl had become bewitched with escaping to different worlds. In those brief hours, while Nani watered the plants, gossiped with the neighbours, and made lunch, the girl had already traveled through many oceans and continents. She had learnt languages she had never heard of and made friends with goblins dancing in the enchanted forests of her story books.
Plants carry stories, Nani had said. Their vines, growing with minds of their own, had found ways to touch Nani’s heart in more ways than her own children ever could. Ma, Nani’s daughter, was one such flower who, despite germinating from inside Nani’s body, had never earned her love like the garden on her balcony did.
She loves her plants more than she loves me, Ma had said to the girl. Ma who looked like the girl who looked like Nani.
One day, several years and stories later, Nani had shrivelled up and returned to the soil she came from. We come from the earth and go back into it, the girl had heard. She had not seen Nani in five years. She wondered what would happen to the garden now.
Papa’s graduation gift to the girl was a tiny potted plant that, he affirmed, needed minimal care. Because I don’t trust you to look after it, he had said.
The girl had laughed. She had been living abroad for so many years—wasn’t that enough to prove she could look after herself? How different could a plant be?
The plant’s waxy leaves bore the promise of it one day blossoming into a small but mighty herb, one that could weather through with minimal sunlight, water, and attention. Unlike Nani, the girl had never learnt to love something that sprouted from soil.
But for now, Papa’s graduation gift had three leaves with a fourth peeking its head out, just barely. Enough to let the girl know it was there, waiting for her to nourish it with whatever she had.
It was always difficult to find the time to call Ma, especially in the time since the girl herself had morphed into a young pine tree. While time zones separated them from coast to gulf, the space between their words distanced them further.
She had grown up watching her mother water plants in her garden. In the scorching summer temperatures of the Middle East, she had watched Ma talk to her flowers, knowing their taxonomic names almost as well as she knew her own. When the crows came to peck at her beloved tomato plants, Ma shooed them away with a vigour that reminded the girl of tigresses protecting their cubs.
It’s easy to love plants, Ma had said. It’s humans that are difficult.
She loves her plants more than she loves me, the girl had said to herself. The girl who looked like Ma who looked like Nani.
Papa’s graduation gift lived up to its promise, initially. In each home it inhabited, it seemed to grow new leaves, held in place by strong roots and luscious tendrils. It needs minimal care, Papa had emphasized. The girl had believed him. She moved from house to house, finding comfort in the plant’s glossy greenness and her growing collection of stories. She always found time to buy new books, but never enough to read them.
In the midst of becoming an adult, she had fallen in love with trees. She understood now why Nani had said that plants tell stories. The firs surrounding the girl reminded her of warm winter mornings, and she admired the alpine wildflowers for their resistance.
The meadow-dancing plants needed a lot of care, the internet told her. The heavy rainfall, sweet summertime sunshine and the dedication of pollinators made the flowers bloom even in the mountains. She thought of how sweet it may be to escape into the forests, taking her grief and Papa’s potted plant along with her.
The girl had last spoken to Ma two weeks ago. The conversation had ended almost like all phone calls did these days—one of them hung up, both of them enraged, neither of them willing to call again. Each felt like the other misunderstood her; it was like they were speaking entirely different languages.
She had grown up watching Ma sip chai while watering the plants in her garden. In the sweet winter evenings, she joined Ma, bringing along with her a blanket and a book to read. Their cat slept on the hammock outside, blissfully ignorant of botanical terminologies.
The plants know I’m here for them, Ma had said. I speak to them in loving words, that’s why they grow.
She loves her plants more than she loves me, the girl had said to herself. The girl who looked like Ma who looked like Nani.
Papa’s graduation gift slowly began to change colours. The girl first noticed it when she picked up the pot to water the plant, and noticed the once green tendrils had slowly turned brown in some areas, yellow in others.
You’re over-watering the plant, the internet told her. So she watered it less.
You’re under-watering the plant, the internet told her. So she watered it more.
The plant, however, was as stubborn as she was. Once it determined for itself that it would not blossom, it never once strayed from its path.
The girl hadn’t spoken to Ma in weeks, and ignored Papa’s forwarded WhatsApp messages. A part of her felt trapped in their domestic interactions, which made her crave the mountains and the fresh scent of the firs all the more. She felt them calling out to her, luring her with their sweet promise of escape.
She looked at the plant now with both confusion and rage. She had begun to resent the gift.
The girl now only heard about Ma, not from her. Through the static of overseas phone calls that seemed to decrease in frequency, Papa would play messenger, delivering a swift bulletin of how Ma was doing. She wondered if Ma ever asked Papa how she was doing.
Her apartment was full of plants now. She was especially enchanted by a new monstera, gifted to her by a lover. Whenever she stepped inside her home, she was greeted by the sights of well-loved books and greenery everywhere. If she looked closely, the girl saw titles gifted by Ma leaning against the spines of newer volumes she had bought herself.
Plants carry stories, Nani had said. So the girl had made her home a tribute to both, a cosy romance of flora and fiction. She watered her plants with the utmost care and attention, cooing to them as one does to kittens when they are still blind. She had begun to know their taxonomic names as well as she knew her own.
She loves her plants more than she loves me, Ma said to Papa. Ma who looked like Nani who looked like the girl.
One day, several rescue attempts and stories later, Papa’s graduation gift shrivelled up and returned to the soil it came from. We come from the earth and go back into it, the girl had heard. She had not spoken to Ma in months. She wondered what would happen to her garden now.
Shanai Tanwar
Shanai Tanwar (she/her) is an Indian poet and journalist. Her poetry has appeared in Existere, Plenitude, The Temz Review and elsewhere, alongside other work in Brown History, The Globe and Mail, Maisonneuve, Broadview and more. She is an incoming MA Modern Literature and Culture student at King’s College London this fall and is convinced she has a divine connection with black cats.
Photo credit: Oliver Fetter
Apricot Press 