Sometimes you don’t need a thousand words to tell a story. Sometimes it’s not just about words but emotions and empathy.
Today, while sitting in a garden in New Delhi, I couldn’t stop thinking about my grandmother’s garden, miles away set amid majestic Himalayas of Uttrakhand. I have seen her taking care of her delightful secluded garden ever since I was a kid. She used to sweep the dried twigs and leaves during fall from her garden, and used to build small sheds for her fragile plants during monsoon.
I just can’t stop thinking about all the colors of her garden. The colors that I can never find in the hustle-bustle of cities. This garden where I sit right now isn’t as splendid as my grandma’s garden, but it has successfully transported me to my childhood memories.
Now my grandma is too feeble to take care of her plants, but she somehow manages to keep the garden evergreen. I’m in awe of her, her spirit to keep her little babies alive no matter how old she grows is just admirable.
Last summer, I went to see my ailing grandma, she looked thin. Her calm face was looking pale. She asked me to go to the garden in her weak voice; she knows, I’m the biggest fan of her garden. I told my grandma that I wrote a poem for her, she smiled and asked me to translate it to Hindi.
I went to the backyard to see if her garden was still blooming and if there were still marks of those enchanting colors that I miss in my city life.
Gee, the garden was still wonderful, although, some creepers were dying and some of my favorite flowers were missing, but I was once again entering the garden of my childhood memories filled with vivid colors.
A few colors from the garden for you.