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Journalism of Courage
For me, it was the last spring at my Sett Lane house in Kolkata. We had been there for two decades and were soon to leave the city permanently. The time had finally come to give the house and its backyard a last farewell.
When we had moved in, the backyard 8212; or what was left of it 8212; was a space abandoned to the vagaries of nature. Rose plants and jasmine bushes begged for attention. Two frail papaya trees, sans fruit, stood forlornly, etched against the clear blue sky. Except for some green patches around the leaking hydrant, the grass was a dried, tangled mass. Dead leaves and bird droppings covered the area. The gate8217;s hinges creaked and its green paint was peeling.
The garden had made our visits to the vegetable vendors less frequent. There was always a modest harvest of cauliflowers, cabbages and carrots. Brinjals, tomatoes and beans waited until the winter vegetables had been harvested. Then capsicums, okra and gourds would see us through the rest of the year.
Early in the morning, when the sky was lightly dusted with the first colours of dawn, the shaded foliage would come alive. Leaves were like little mirrors reflecting the heavenly light. Parrots, mynahs and sparrows flew about. They held lively discussions and treated us to an occasional concert.
Moist breezes, redolent with the fragrance of the garden, visited our home, bringing with them the musky smell of spring flowers, ripe fruit and freshly mown grass. This was where our two restless boys, constantly chased by my wife, romped about in the untamed process of growing up.
Pangs that every parting brings overwhelmed me for a moment. Who will water and prune the plants, I thought. And, above all, who will watch the seasonal cycles in my backyard? I wonder if I shall ever set foot again on that soil where I spent 20 memorable years of my life. But in my imagination, I see the garden continuing its existence. With the new occupants of the house, an old movie is remade with a different cast.
