In this essay, Harshitha Kasarla talks about how gardening is so much more than a hobby for her as they fill her life with sunshine.
Parts of my soul are planted in pots across my house. Some are on the balcony, one in my bedroom, and some others where I rarely see them under the winding staircase. I have had some of them my whole life, some I was gifted, some I fought and purchased with my hard-earned money and I wagered my house to set out and buy one plant. That one I set in my bedroom. I wake up to it and I sleep to it. I tend to every leaf with care and worry if I haven’t noted a wrinkle in a bud as soon as it appears. My friends mocked me for such an obsession with a plant when I first got it. But the obsession with a lover is mostly accepted, so I get by.
There are some that are only posters now. These posters have photos of the plants in bloom, and the plants as they shriveled, with me and without me. I don’t know if these poster plants too have some bits of me in them. But all the plants in the house definitely do. I have my morning tea with the ones on the balcony. Some days I pay attention to them, other days they merely watch me take my work calls and do my yoga. I make sure to water these every day though. They are older than I am, and I owe it to them. I berate myself for the days I only run in and out of the balcony. I know these plants await my mornings with them.