I got a small indoor plant as a gift on my birthday. A green gesture from a childhood friend. Only she did not realise that I am a plant killer, despite my best efforts to try to grow them. I fell in love with a small plant with heart-shaped leaves. The Internet tells me it is called Pothos. I decided that little Pothosu would live and thrive in my house come what may. Pothosu? Yes, the South Indian system of nomenclature runs strong in my genes — add a ‘u’ or an ‘n’ to names and own them.
My father was a government servant and we lived in small towns in big houses with gardens and backyards. My best memories of childhood are the hours spent with siblings and friends under the shade of a tree or sometimes sitting on some low branches. We used to spend hours spinning entire Walt Disney Worlds. There were tales of magic too.
Unfortunately, this affinity with plants faded with time. My lack of gardening skills and life in concrete jungles cut out plants from my life. Or so I thought until I got my birthday gift.
I decided that I would protect and preserve my gift. I did the intelligent thing — consulted two advisers — the friendly neighbourhood gardener and Google guru. When all the stars were aligned propitiously, Pothosu was installed near the French window where it would get the right amount of sunlight (no chance of too much sunlight as I live in Bengaluru). I measured the amount of water that I would pour gently at regular intervals.
Many people believe that plants are sentient beings. They talk to their plants . They say that their plants wilt when there is tension in their house.
You may call me whatever you want — but I talk to Pothosu and find it therapeutic. I know she smiles when I tell her something funny.
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