The sunniest spots for the special plants.
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My snake plant died last week. Yes, one of the hardiest houseplants with a reputation of being the most tolerant is no more.
It’s official now. I am a bad plant parent. I am incapable of taking care of simple living things that require only water, air, sunlight and soil for survival.
The snake plant is not the first to die. There were several before — including the peace lily, the Zz plant, the spider plant, pothos — all low-maintenance, easy-to-care-for houseplants that were supposed to do well indoors and breathe good energy into my third-floor apartment. But none of them survived despite me following the rulebook and the pamphlets that came with some of them. The broken heart didn’t even wait for my services — true to its name it wilted the very next day, probably of a broken heart when it sensed the bad plant energy inside the house. If it had legs in place of roots, it would have made for the door immediately.
It was the drab life in the big city that turned me into a plant enthusiast. Surrounded by the steel greys, jet blacks and clinical whites of modernity, I craved for a little green — a little green paradise that would light up and refresh my abode; a few plants on the itsy-bitsy ledges of the windows and empty corners of the living room to feed my soul and soothe my eyes sore with dust and the daily grind. How difficult can it be!
Growing up in a small town in Kerala, I took greenery for granted. I don’t remember any special care being given to the plants or trees we had at home. They just grew, flowering and fruiting in their own time following the seasons, nurtured only by Nature. Hibiscus, lily, periwinkle, ixora, jasmine, yellow cassia and oleander plants grew with wild abandon, surrounded by coconut, mango, areca, banana and papaya trees. Tomato, chilli and ladies finger plants sprouted in the most unexpected places — from the kitchen waste that my mother threw into the backyard.
There was no lack of tender loving care for the plants I brought home. Everything was meticulously planned and followed through. I found the sunniest spots for them in my balcony-less apartment and sourced the best soil. I watered them, nourished them with manure, fought with the ants and mealy bugs, cleaned their tiny leaves… Following the Royal Horticultural Society’s findings that talking to plants can help them grow, I even read out a few passages from my favourite novel to them. But nothing could coax them to bud or bloom. Mother Nature just refused to step into my home.
Every plant death brought with it much heartache and even more questions for which I haven’t been able to get clear answers. My neighbour, a proud parent of several beautiful indoor plants, says it’s a typical case of helicopter parenting — over-attentiveness and over-protectiveness leading to overwatering, overfertilizing and all that — a trait she says is mostly seen in new plant parents. However, a friend with whom I shopped for plants ascribes it to me not having a green thumb. She says some people just don’t have it in their DNA. I am not sure of this genetic thing because a few days after my snake plant died, my college-going daughter came home with a cutting from her friend’s garden, which she planted in one of the many empty pots in the most unceremonious and unprofessional way. She didn’t take a look at it again let alone tending to it. But yesterday I noticed little spots of green along the stem — which shocked and delighted me at the same time. If I can’t be a plant parent, I have fresh hope in the next generation.
My short-lived plant parenthood has however taught me a few things about Mother Nature, and I now have a newfound respect for Her. It helped me realise the value of soil, the presence of which I hardly acknowledged earlier. And I now look at the sun with deep reverence in spite of having eyes that are extra sensitive to light.
I have hopes that some day, I’ll be able to be a plant parent again. Till then, I’ll depend on my human offspring to bring a touch of green into my home.
seethajayan@gmail.com
