For years i'd been bitten by want-her-lust. The objects of my desire have been plants from dif- ferent regions, mainly from cooler climes, and nurturing them was an exercise in futility. But i didn't find that out straightaway. My tenacity clung to me for years, "maybe this time" was a refrain that constantly hummed in my (pea) brain. Sometimes the cravings were as bad as all the Seven Deadly Sins clubbed together! Holidaying in the Himalayan foothills almost every year, i'd fall in love with begonias all over again. I've brought them by rail, road and air hoping to grow them in all colours. But once they landed on Torrid Zone they'd wilt. Nothing could rejuvenate them again; neither the right amount of water nor shade. Nothing would evoke any positive response. And yet i didn't give up hope. Somewhere along the way realisation dawned! There was no earth-shattering event which worked as a catalyst,(not that i can tell). Maybe Mother Nature made me come to my senses! And yes, next time we head for the mountains, and if i see the Queen Mother of all begonias, in full regalia, nary a notion of bringing her back with me will deign to enter my cleared head! I shall only gawk and i shall only stare. And i shall turn on my heel and walk away...tra la la....! In order to mark the revelation of sense and sensibility, i went and bought a begonia plant from a nursery less than a kilometre away. Not again, one might think, but i've purged myself of this craving and what could be better than to get a begonia that's acclimatised down to its last gene! I'd seen these plants earlier at the nursery, seemingly oblivious to the heat but i'd wanted more than just pink clusters for flowers! Coming back to my plant-- she's doing fine and she seems happy. Weather conditions? Conducive! She's Guwahati-weather-friendly which is why i bought her. And soon,i hope, she'll be ready to increase and multiply!
Glory be to God for dappled things- For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings; Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him. Gerard Manley Hopkins
The first flowering shrub I planted on our land
Every flower is a soul blooming in Nature.-Gerard De Nerval
Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself? -Henry David Thoreau