The room that our family of 4 shared had a long, narrow passageway attached to the balcony. This narrow passage shared a boundary wall with our neighbours on one side and our room windows on the other. Both of these vertical structures were attached to horizontal concrete slabs that eventually left space for one person to walk in the middle. My mother glided through this thin, self-constructed path for 15 odd years, lining the grey with plants, bonsai, and trays that resembled forests, complete with fences, ponds, and tiny ceramic animals and birds.
As I force myself to recall all these minute details, I remember how oblivious I was to this whole thing. When we eventually moved into an old house during the pandemic, we were bequeathed with a huge backyard (with a date tree) and a big front lawn (with a jackfruit tree). Both of these pieces of land were ignored and barren. I actively participated in watching my mother transform both of them in 3 months, through constant mulching using discarded sugarcane residue, to planting things that rejuvenated the soil. I started noticing mushrooms all around our garden—an indication that her efforts were leading to something positive. Mushrooms were a sign.
I was not particularly interested or loved plants the way my mother did. In fact, I wasn't even curious. But, all of this transferred to me through osmosis, through my skin, and I think it has finally seeped into my being, as I went from ignoring to watching and eventually to actively paying attention and learning.
This time around, as I learn, I want to take my time to comprehend her way of seeing the world. In the following newsletters, I will document, unpack, and dive deeper into my mother's garden. The hope is to create a way of documenting (almost a toolkit) that can help us study and learn more gardens and farms. Join us?
