Murphy and the Crazy Plant Lady

In the snow shrouded city of Montreal, I bought a red grafted cactus and named it Felicity. Cocooned in the warmth of my apartment and perched on the windowsill where it was constantly exposed to the bright and strong Canadian sun, this plant was my constant companion throughout the two years that I spent studying there. I was attached to it. It created a sense of familiarity while I was navigated these uncharted waters. Almost as if this was a pattern, I bought a similarly grafted cactus in my first week here from a nursery, Leaves. It’s called Murphy and it’s a contrasting mix of a brilliant red and sap green. After visiting the nursery a couple of times to explore more plants, I got to know about Garden Care, which was a much larger nursery, close to the Yelahanka Police Station and visited it next week.

Garden Care, from the outset, seemed ensconced in a world of its own. Sheltered by a forest cover on it’s right, the nursery seemed to be an extension of this small belt of forested land. To the left of the entrance was a construction site, crowded by a truck and large piles of tiles and cement boris. I got to know later that a garden shop was going to be created there. To my right was a tiny alcove, canopied and framed with terrariums, succulents, hanging pots and shelves of plants, which served as their open-aired office. Opposite that was a makeshift canopy, supported by bamboo sticks that shielded a mound of soil. Three women squatted around a wagon and large rows of creepers and pots. They were engrossed in their work, cutting stems with pliers and muttering to each other in fast Kannada. They stopped in mid-conversation as I crossed them, sensing their eyes following me. In that moment, I was an outsider and felt like turtling into the confines of my shirt. 

The owner’s son, Samarth, was there to greet me and we began conversing about the nursery and my project. Garden Care was started by his father, a horticulturalist, a few years ago and was taken over by Samarth as his own project after he graduated. The nursery had only recently been expanded to include various infrastructure to support different species of plants with different needs. Samarth began taking me throughout the different areas of the nursery. “These are our semi-shade plants,” he said, pointing to a large area of plants in neat rows. Tall shafts supported long plastic canopies. He waded his way through a section of money plants, kayanis and small palm saplings and bent over a neat row of exotic looking orchids. “These orchids are specially imported from Netherlands, the leading country of horticulture,” he gently swept his finger across a curling purple petal and continued, “It’s a bamboo orchid. Netherlands has such premier technology, their temperature controlled greenhouses are made of glass which allow them to grow different species that may not acclimatize to the natural climate there,” he seemed wistful, so I prodded a little bit, “What about your ambitions for this nursery?” He smiled, “Of course, we will get there one day. I want to create similar controlled environments as well.”

“Where do you purchase your plants from? How do you decide which plants to purchase?” I asked, following him as he made his way to yet another enclosure. This time, the white plastic canopies extended all the way to the ground, almost making it seem like a giant hut. “We purchase our plants mostly from wholesalers. We try and understand the different demands of our community based on the needs of the people. Also very often we call for plants that increase the value of the nursery, in that, they can be grafted to create more of their kind. We have almost 500 different species here out of which 10% are grown within the nursery itself,” he now slid open the padlock to the hut. “This is our only temperature-controlled room so far,” he said proudly, “We are even working on installing a mist exuding vent here.” The small space of the hut was saturated with humidity to a point of bursting; millions of tiny droplets of condensation coated the sheets of plastic. The plants inside this were really tiny, almost sapling-like. Samarth explained to me that this high temperature was important for these specific species.

At that moment, a man of small build and a generally smiling face approached us from tin and brick shelters that lined the back of the nursery. He had a large muddied cloth slung across his shoulder and a khurpi clasped in his hand. This was Rajesh and he was going to be my guide for the rest of the day. Samarth had called for him as he was the head gardener of the nursery and the only Hindi-speaking maali there. I introduced myself to him and followed him towards more of these tin shelters. “Do you live here?” I asked in Hindi. He nodded, “I have been working here for 15 years and recently when they expanded the nursery, some of us who live in villages, moved here with our families. That’s my wife, those are my three sons,” he said, pointing to a lady who had peeked out of the door when she heard us approach and three small boys who had been chasing each other furiously all day. We continued our tour of the nursery, this time making our way past plants taller than me. I figured this may be where the forest and the nursery sort of merge into each other. “These are plants that require the most shade,” he said as we approached the coolest part of Garden Care, overhung with dark green canopies. The soil here was mossy and slippery. He squatted next to a row of small shoots and began tearing their plastic encasing. He then took an empty pot and filled it with mixed soil from a bori. He now placed the sapling with its little sphere of mud clung to its roots into this empty pot. “See, you have to mix the matti like this and place the sapling in the center. We put gobar and husks of manure to keep the plants strong,” he was cupping the sapling between his palms and patting the soil to smoothen it evenly. I bent next to him and imitated his movements. The soil was cold and dry, crumbling easily in my palms. Rajesh took me around different parts of nursery, sometimes squatting to explain a certain feature of a sapling or a leaf, sometimes vigorously ploughing with his khurpi to create neat ridges, sometimes shouting instructions in Kannada to another maali. He seemed to know about every plant and every bud we crossed. I asked him what he liked most about the nursery, whether he enjoyed his work or not. To this he gave me a toothy grin.

“I think this is the most subtle profession I have ever engaged in. It’s not like other things,” he had an all-knowing look in his eyes as though I was supposed to understand the full meaning and depth of what he meant. Without further explanation, he continued. “Don’t you think all these plants are like human beings? When they are infested with bugs, we give them medicine. We have to be observant and alert about their care, be tender and gentle and give each one its own attention. It’s hard work and patience. But it’s like creating a bond, because in these moments I feel very close to them,” he took me to where the three women were sitting on the mound. “Look they are cutting parts of the creeper and grafting that to create a new plant. Kitna accha hai na ye?” he exclaimed, excitedly. As I observed him shifting from Kannada to Hindi, while talking to me and the three women, I realized that I had stumbled upon a community in itself; all the maalis and workers who lived together in the shelters at the back of the nursery sent their children to government school. All the women got together at around 11AM to make lunch, flattening their rotis with practiced hands and stirring a pot of scalding hot dal. I imagined them eating together in the evenings and guffawing over a shared joke or a funny incident. There was a certain sense of sacredness to routine and camaraderie between them. I observed the important roles played by each plant and it’s care-giver, a unique relationship between this object and the human. I realized how Murphy, my cactus, had led me to here to discover a group of people, who shared similar interests or were brought together by circumstance and explore their inter-dependence with each other; how they created a way of life in this organic way.

Rajesh was taking me to a lavender plant now. “Here, pinch and squeeze this leaf between your fingers,” he instructed. The leaves of lavender almost had a bristly texture, like the skin of kiwis. I tightly squeezed the leaf and brought my fingers to my nose. Gasping at the saturated smell of musky sweetness and a slight hint of spice, I was dumbfounded by the strong aroma that one tiny leaf was able to create. “This was the first plant I ever grew here,” Rajesh smiled proudly and was pleased with my reaction. “To this day, I keep a small lavender pot next to my bed, it reminds me of why I came here with my family and started doing this in the first place.”

After a long day of shadowing Rajesh at the nursery, I come home tired and hungry. On entering my room, I automatically glance at Murphy, perched on my desk in its usual spot. Instinctively I notice a new kind of understanding in how I perceive my cactus, as though we have a shared secret. It seems to have embodied today’s experience at Garden Care, even though it was never there with. I can easily visualize the three women flattening soil with their palms, the different hues of green at the nursery and weirdly, even the smell from the lavender plant lingers. I remove a fittonia from a paper bag I had been carrying and place it next to Murphy. I named it Junebug.