Where things grow slowly, and so do I.

​

When I was allotted a university quarter on the Banaras Hindu University campus in 2022, I did not move in immediately. It was only in March 2023 that I finally made this house my home. It came with a small patch of front garden. It was overgrown, termite-infested, and quietly abandoned. The soil was dry and depleted. Wild shrubs had claimed every corner. It did not resemble a garden so much as a forgotten space. It felt restless and uninviting.

​

But I saw potential, not in a grand or transformative way, but in small, tender steps forward. I began with what I had: a love for plant life, something I owe entirely to my mother. Despite having limited resources and almost no proper space for gardening, she somehow managed to keep things growing. She worked with chipped containers, broken buckets, and whatever corners she could find. Always improvising, always nurturing. That quiet determination, that refusal to give up on the green, left a lasting impression on me.

So I started with baby steps. I began by clearing the weeds, loosening the soil, and observing how the light moved across the space through the day. I planted a few hardy seasonal plants, treating each one like a tentative experiment. Some withered. Others took root. Slowly, the space began to breathe again.

​

Today, that little patch of land has grown into something deeply alive. Alongside a variety of seasonal and evergreen plants, I have planted fruit trees: banana, fig, mango, sapota, and pomegranate. These trees feel like a quiet promise to the future, rooted in the present and always reaching forward. The garden is now also home to close to three hundred potted plants, each with its own story, temperament, and rhythm. Some flower extravagantly, others choose restraint. Some need constant attention, while others thrive in silence.

​

This is not a solitary pursuit. My wife Nilekha and my daughter Anveshi are deeply woven into the daily life of this garden. Whether it is watering plants, shifting pots, or simply sitting on the steps to watch something bloom, they are always there—curious, encouraging, and involved. Their presence turns the garden into something more than a space filled with plants. It becomes a shared rhythm, a quiet ritual of togetherness, and a part of our family’s everyday life.

​

Over time, the garden has also become a little sanctuary for many small visitors. It attracts a variety of birds and butterflies. Often, in the stillness of morning or late afternoon light, one can spot a butterfly hovering over a bloom or hear the rustle of wings among the trees. These gentle presences bring a kind of quiet joy, filling the space with an unspoken sense of blessing.

​

Gardening has taught me more than I ever expected to learn. It has shown me that growth takes time, that failure is part of the journey, and that joy often arrives without fanfare. A garden humbles you. You prepare the soil, offer water, and provide care, but the real magic unfolds in its own way, in its own time. You are not the master here. You are simply a participant in something larger, slower, and deeply alive.

Every day, I am reminded how refreshing it is to step into this world of green. It is a world where things move gently and at their own pace. A world that forgives. Plants are always kinder than you imagine. Even the ones you feared you had neglected will sometimes choose to live, to unfurl a new leaf, to quietly surprise you with colour.

​

Perhaps the most beautiful lesson of all has been this: plants do communicate. Not in language, but through small and steady signs. A new shoot, a curling stem, shifting colours, or a subtle lean toward light. If you stay long enough, if you pay attention, you begin to understand. It becomes a relationship, not just a responsibility.

​

This garden, my little green companion, is still a work in progress. And perhaps that is the point. Like anything truly alive, it resists perfection. It evolves. It surprises. It falters. It heals. And in doing so, it reminds me every single day that tending to something, no matter how small or ordinary, is an act of hope.

​

And in nurturing it, I have found myself quietly nurtured too.