My husband loves gardening, loves to potter around in his tiny patch of green, humming, weeding, trimming, digging, watering…. Everybody who visits our home is amazed at how he has transformed our tiny garden into a tropical forest. Tiny birds with long tails, colourful butterflies, buzzing bees, croaking frogs and a big fat chameleon have made our garden their home. All of us love to watch the birds in our garden. They come in a group – three or four of them – especially after Sunil has watered the garden. They rest lightly on the creepers, seeming to do a fine balancing act on the green twine. They hop onto the balcony, feeding sometimes on the rice grains that Anu leaves out for them. They converse with each other in dulcet notes…. Anu told us about how one tiny bird trying to drink from the large cement pot filled with water in which lotus and water lilies floated, lost her balance and fell into the water. She came up quickly, shook off the water disdainfully and flew away.
Looking at Sunil’s love for gardening, I know he would have been delighted with the gardens around Mubarak Munzil, when we were growing up. There were three of them. A small one near my sister’s room housed a few mogra and rose plants. The fenced-in garden in front of the portico again had many flowering plants and shrubs. This was where we played many fun-filled games. The garden in the west - now that was something magical! Besides the mogras, the roses and the raat ki rani plants, there were so many fruit-bearing trees here! Pomegranate, guava, mango, two large chickoo trees with sprawling branches perfect to lounge in, fig trees, lemon trees and small patches which my grandmother had converted into miniature vineyards. There were some borrom trees that needed a long thorny trek to be reached. Close to the compound wall, these attracted many urchins who’d jump the wall to pick the borroms that generously carpeted the ground. The stone bench under the grape vines was privy to many an innocent conversation, It was here that we sat with friends and shared terribly important secrets. We played ‘house house’ in the gardens with our little toys. We sang and danced. We hid here when we were angry or sulking. Our garden was also the venue for a picnic once. One of our junior classes was unable to go to their planned venue for some reason. The Principal and teachers called up my parents and asked them if our garden could become their picnic spot. My parents agreed. So there I was perched on the ledge of the bedroom window watching a bunch of little kids tucking into their lunch boxes, playing passing the parcel and enjoying their picnic!
One year, my grandmother used the space behind our house to plant some maize. The crows swooped down. A scarecrow was placed in the middle of the crop but proved ineffective. A maid – tall and lanky – almost like a scarecrow herself was given the responsibility to shoo the birds away. So every now and then, she’d race up the stairs to the terrace with a rag in her hand. She’d stand on the terrace wall, waving the rag like a flag of truce. My second sister Nasira, who inherited my grandmother’s green thumb, looked after our gardens till she married and moved away to Dubai. Slowly, the gardens – left under the care of servants – became a neglected lot. Plants dried up. Weeds overran the place. Trees shriveled up and quietly died. But in my memory, the gardens of Mubarak Munzil are still rich and green, still buzzing with life and activity. Birds still sing here. Laughter still rings out. And little children with dreams in their eyes run about joyously.
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