Of moms and balcony garden

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mom in Dhaka must be in want of a balcony-garden.

However little compatible the house or area might be to the growing of actual plantlife, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of most moms in Dhaka that this balcony-garden is considered to already exist—even if it really, really does not.

"My dear balcony," said my mom to her favourite place in the house. "Did you know that I ordered about a dozen different planters and seedlings for you last night?"

The balcony, thankfully, did not speak.

The home I share with my parents and sister faces north. North-facing homes are rarely capable of growing or sustaining plants in balconies, primarily because of the lack of direct sunlight. Plants like light. They think it's very neat. My mother agrees, but not with the fact that these plants actually need it to thrive. The lack of sunlight will be covered by an abundance of love. Unfortunately, the fact that love cannot recreate photosynthesis does not seem to be an important factor.

My mother's war against the concrete jungles of Dhaka is a heroic effort to bring some semblance of greenery to our home. An uphill battle, of course, but this woman does not know the word "defeat", and thus, her war continues.

This winter, to my everlasting shock, her beloved chondromollika actually flowered.

Readers, you have to understand. My house does not get sunlight. Or rain. Or much wind, for that matter. The fact this poor plant managed to flower is a biological miracle.

"You guys should be inspired," mom told the other plants nearby. "If she can do it, so can you!"

The plants, bizarrely, seem to agree.

For almost three years, partially inspired by mom, I tried to look after a rickety little palm-tree type plant on my own balcony. I don't even know what type of plant it is. "Tried" is the keyword here—the plant did not "die", per se, but it was obviously miserable under my care. My mother finally had enough and took it under her wing. The thing is flourishing now, even though it's January.

I do not understand, and I have a feeling nature does not, either.

Early last year, my mom discovered the ground-breaking trend of rooftop gardens. More specifically, the Facebook business pages that let you order what you want online, set everything up for you, and then mysteriously vanish (along with their shady social media pages). My unstoppable mother researched one such business from the depths of Hades to the heights of Olympus, and finally decided to call them up. Things worked out well—until she realised that the lush rainforest that she had wanted to recreate does not grow on cement rooftops. Undeterred, she contacted them and, together, they teamed up to plant what seemed to be about a billion different varieties of fruits, vegetables and other leafy things. We did get a few kacha morich and lebu, but then the plants gave up the ghost and, to date, refuse to do anything other than survive. The inspiration provided by the hardy little chondromollika was not, unfortunately, enough to replicate photosynthesis.

As I write this, my mother does not know that I am writing about her. There is a good chance that, when she does inevitably find out, I will be turned into fertiliser. Perhaps the chondromollika's drooping heads might finally find the strength to stand upright.

Two doughty soldiers who fight alongside my mother's war against concrete are my household help, Moriom Khala, and my driver, Shohid Bhai. Together, they create a terrifying trio of tree-lovers who will, one day, destroy the tyranny of cement and tiles in this city and restore its greenery. I have lost count of the mornings I have woken up to find mom, Moriom Khala, and Shohid Bhai furiously trimming the plants, poking holes in the soil, checking moisture and water levels and doing a whole host of strange, plant-related things for which I have no name.

I have four dusty little plastic pots in my own balcony, and for me, it is enough.

Despite the amount of jokes and ribbing I inflict on my mother for her love of plants, there is no denying that the air in my home is cleaner, fresher and healthier than most Dhaka homes. I still miss the neem gaach that we planted in the living room balcony when we first moved into this apartment, the one that grew so much that it was simply too large to be kept indoors anymore and has been relocated to its own plot of actual land just outside the city. The same neech gaach whose leaves and branches my mom used to soothe my itching skin when I got chicken pox nearly fifteen years ago.

We might not have bright flowers, but it is obvious that her plants feel her love. Every leaf is sturdy, bright green, and healthy. When her asthma gets bad and she runs outside to breathe, it genuinely feels like the plants work just a little extra to make sure she can breathe easier.

She does not know, but I see her sometimes, sitting on the sofa, her eyes on her plants, music on the tip of her tongue, singing to them soundlessly. They can hear her, those hardy little plants who grow, not with sunlight, but with love. My mother has found incredible friends in her greenery, and they love her back just as fiercely.

Dear ma, this dying planet needs you to win your war. And so do I.