The first time I held a tiny, subtle seed in my palm, I felt a quiet sense of wonder. How could something so small have the potential to become a pothos, a vine heavy with watermelons, or a fragrant bed of lavender? Gardening is an art, a wisdom, and a form of tone-expression. Since the early years of childhood, yards have been more than mere spots of grass—yards have been play areas, playgrounds, and quiet instructors in my life's journey. My earliest recollections are imprinted in the verdant gardens of Rajwada Palace, where my maternal grandfather used to take me to play. The touch of wet grass in the backyard and the exhilaration of running in the open sky ingrained in me a great love for nature. Evening walks with my father in our Indore locality further deepened this bond. In those neighborhood parks, I made fleeting yet meaningful friendships, sharing school chit-chat and a sphere of laughter with other children.

While in Indore, I once stopped by a rosarium where I discovered black, blue, and even green roses. That day marked a quiet resolution in my heart—I would one day have my garden. This desire was also rooted in my summer vacations at my maternal uncle’s palace, where I joined my aaji, a.k.a. grandmother, every morning to get the fresh flowers from our terrace for god’s garlands. It became part of my everyday ritual to design those wreaths with precision, playing with colors and designs—a spiritual and artistic expression. We all have stories—some spoken out loud, some whispered in the silence of our minds. Through poetry, personal thoughts, or fanciful stories, words bring us together. They turn moments into memories, thoughts into words. From blooming buds to unexpected conversations, inspiration is everywhere. Each person sees the world through a unique lens, and that’s the beauty of nature.

The First Sprout: A Lesson in Hope
The dawn of whisper I ever nurtured was a basil plant, fragile and uncertain, just like my own journey. Each day, I'd dash to the windowsill, heart racing with expectation. That was the day I saw the first small green sprout grow up through the dirt, and it seemed like a personal triumph—a muted vow from nature that life, however tiny, always prevails. In a world of instant reward, it is a reminder to keep things simple that not all can be hurried. You cannot hasten a bud to bloom prematurely or ask for a fruit from a sapling. Instead, you learn to remain, to nourish, to trust the process. As I matured, these spaces maintained a significant presence in my personhood and perspective. While I was in Pune for a year, I had the experience of living in a flat system that offers a different kind of relationship to gardens. The society park became a social hub—mothers walked their toddlers, and I, along with friends Heena, Karishma, and Mamta, would stroll around, exchanging stories about school and hobbies. These moments taught me the significance of companionship and the simple joy of being present with others in the meadows.

Coming back to Indore and shifting into a sprawling township of thirty towers, I was marooned within a forest of gardens that came to be my regular hideout. I developed morning and evening walking routines starting in the tenth grade, which not only kept me physically active but also gave me a sense of discipline and routine. My "me time' was anchored in moments of peace and reflection by the cool breeze, the pleasant faces of other walkers, and the calming sound of rustling leaves.

Every morning, I walk through the park facing my apartment with a quiet smile, my feet scraping vocally on the gravel. I have now replaced cakes and chocolates with bonsai and bamboos as birthday gifts for my friends — living pieces of joy that carry part of me with them. While I prune the floral orchard on my terrace, birds flutter through the deciduous trees above me. The lawn bursts with a vibrant carpet of grass, changing with every season like nature’s own artwork.

I squealed, signaling my little trowel in the air. We strolled past the mosaiculture archways—roses and butterflies sculpted in blooms—and I felt the same awe she did. This was once merely a plain area of grass, I said to her, "before we welcomed in the butterflies." She glanced up at me, eyes wide. “They built it?” I asked. She chuckled. “No, sweetie. But they brought it to life—and helped me feel alive again too.” The hedge rustled, maybe from a squirrel, or maybe just the wind carrying memories. We paused beneath a leafy bower where stories always seemed to flow. By the stewpond, we gave names to lotuses—Hope, Joy, and Renewal. Even the bougainvillea seemed to bend toward us, like they were listening, like they understood.

More Than Just Plants

I constructed a tiny corner in my kitchen balcony, whole, for herbs one summer. It was an experiment, a flight of fancy that I wasn't certain would succeed. But with the passage of weeks, it became something wondrous. Watching them flutter around, unaware of the rest of the world, I realized how gardening is not just about growing plants. It is about creating an ecosystem, a haven for life that exists beyond our own. It is where I have laughed, cried, and found solace on days when words failed me.

There is an inexplicable delight in entering your garden and harvesting food directly from the ground. A fresh tomato, a handful of mint, a ripe strawberry sun-warmed—it is food at its simplest, unadulterated by chemicals or extensive supply chains. Having grown my vegetables has not just altered my eating, but also the way I honor food. I no longer take a plate of salad for granted, knowing the effort behind each leaf. I waste less, appreciate more, and savor each bite with a new understanding of where it came from.

Gardening offers life assignments wrapped in petals and leaves.

Perseverance: Sometimes, despite all efforts, a plant wilts. A sudden frost, an unexpected drought—nature is unpredictable. You learn to start over, to replant, and to come up with new adaptation strategies.

Mindfulness: Digging into the ground, feeling the soil between your fingers, and hearing the soft rustle of leaves all around you has a meditative quality. Few things can bring you closer to the here and now like it does. 

Gratitude: Watching a plant grow from seed to harvest cultivates an appreciation for the fair miracles of nature. That first bite of a homegrown guava, bursting with sweetness, tastes nothing like a store-bought piece of fruit - it tastes of labor, of time, of love.

I've discovered one of those easy, strong answers in gardening. When I'm despairing, I grab my rake—not to repair the world, but to discover tranquility in a patch of dirt. Harrowing helps me let go of stress and start fresh. Pruning plants mirrors how I trim old habits from my life. The mulch under my feet reminds me that even decay has a purpose—it fuels new growth. Sitting near a trimmed fence, birdwatching, feels further healing than any remedy session. Pumice in the soil teaches me that I can breathe, even under pressure. Watching seeds germinate reminds me: progress doesn’t need to shout. Gradually, with tenderness, the orchard within me flowers once more.

In 2017, when I was at Saheliyon Ki Badi, I felt like I had entered a living dream. Situated in Udaipur, the garden was designed by Rana Sangram Singh for his queen and an array of forty-eight maidens, now a public paradise brimming with fineness and elegance. Situated on the shores of Fateh Sagar Lake, it offers a green oasis in the parched lands of Rajasthan. The elaborately carved black canopies made of grey schist stone, which were constructed approximately 300 years ago, as well as the unusual fountain system that sprayed water from marble elephant trunks, bird beaks, and a lotus pool, astonished my eyes.

I imagined the royal maidens gathering under the bower, mingling and sharing secrets as they walked the cobbles. The aroma of the rainbow-colored flowers still fills the air, and the royal kitchens were once supplied by the local vineyards. The bushes are meticulously trimmed by gardeners connected to the Rajasthani government, maintaining the same beauty that enchanted queens centuries ago.Every corner felt full of stories, like the garden itself was speaking. I felt part of that history, not just visiting, but tending to a legacy. Saheliyon Ki Badi isn't just a garden; it’s a timeless treasure.

The Garden Within

Time spent outdoors boosts one's mood and reduces stress. But beyond science, I have felt this healing firsthand. On difficult days, when my mind felt like a storm, I would step into the garden. I would dig out weeds, trim overrunning vines, and feel the tightness gradually melt with each gesture. There is something profoundly healing about working with one's hands, about caring for life forms that entrust their existence to your attention. Gardening, in a sense, is not merely growing plants, but growing peace within oneself.

In my garden, a cool breeze found,
Monsoon rains kiss the ground.
Sparrows sing in cheerful flight,
Robins glide in pure delight.
Fragrant soil, a soothing balm,
Petals crowned with dewdrop calm.

My interest in nature accompanied me even while pursuing my postgraduate courses in America. I distinctly recall wandering around Central Park in New York, discovering its enormity spread over two days. The view of a lake brimming with ducks, a small lighthouse, picturesque bridges, cycling paths, and rolling hills astonished me. I was also introduced to botanical gardens in Ohio—spaces teeming with a rich diversity of flora. Among them, the Blooms and Butterflies Garden in the Franklin Park Conservatory became a personal favorite, where hundreds of vibrant exotic butterflies flutter freely in a warm, tropical paradise filled with brilliant nectar flowers, conserving endangered species, and serving as a reminder of the fragility and beauty of nature. Inversely alluring was the Columbus Park of Roses in Ohio, which blossoms in the peak months with over a hundred kinds of roses, drawing excursionists from hence.

A trip to an Amish settlement in Lancaster provided an insight into the slower, more thoughtful lifestyle, inspiring some disconnection from digital distractions to eat consciously and lead a more earthy life. The Amish people are renowned for their simple existence oriented towards God, accepting modesty, frugality, and tight family and social bonds. The Amish seek to keep family times and discuss face-to-face, shying away from an array of modern-day technologies. Their philosophy is strongly based on Christian pacifism and Gelassenheit, or submission to the will of God. Large families are viewed as a blessing, especially in farm families where labor is handwork. Horse-drawn buggies continue to be their primary means of transportation, though trains, automobiles, and more recently, electric bicycles are used by some. Their simply dressed ways—beards for men and bonnets for women—represent modesty and social equality, with strict dress regulations differing slightly within Old and New Order Amish.

Food is at the center of social life, featuring homemade, traditional foods frequently enjoyed during community gatherings. Though frequently equated with Pennsylvania Dutch cuisine, Amish foodways are distinctively dynamic and conditioned by time, place, and religious tradition. The museum, antiques shop, and restaurant reflected their tradition and craftsmanship. The museum provided a view into their past, faith, and everyday life, presenting tools, apparel, and domestic items that demonstrate their independent nature. The antiques store presented handmade furniture, quilts, and ornaments—a testament to their craftsmanship, perseverance, and simplicity. Combined, these destinations gave a true picture of Amish values and way of life, affirming their strong devotion to belief, heritage, and diligence.

Nature, still, came more than just a passion during one of the most trying ages of my life. While grappled by employment insecurity and lapsed into low-grade depression, I turned to a career counselor. Her words were easy but revolutionary: Revisit nature. I took their words to heart. About three years ago, post-lockdown, I began gardening. Beginning with easy-care succulents, I eventually built out my green area. Now, my residence is a bountiful garden of herbs, change-of-season flowers, vegetables, and a host of houseplants.It exudes a cozy, counterculturist-enthusiasm charm — my haven of peace and mending.

A Lifelong Love Affair

Visiting the local nurseries each year feels like revisiting an old love story—one that’s always in bloom. I love watching kids run barefoot on the lawn, dodging tools and petals, their laughter filling the air. The mosaiculture displays grow more stunning every year—marigolds shaped into birds, hearts, and even peacocks. I find a nook under the Veranda, where couples sip chai and swap stories. Cropping shears rest nearby—symbols of all the unseen care behind the beauty. Every creeper feels like a part of my story. Gardening hasn't only remolded my courtyard—it's remolded my existence.This trench of love has truly grown into paradise.

Last month, I viewed a phenomenal web series: "The Big Flower Fight" a British competition series on Netflix where teams of florists, sculptors, and garden designers create massive floral installations. The show features teams from various parts of the world, showcasing diverse perspectives and skills in floral design. Ten pairs of florists, sculptors, and garden designers face off in a friendly floral fight to see who can build the biggest, boldest garden sculptures, to be displayed at London's Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew. They face various challenges, such as creating giant floral insects, recreating mammoths and other beasts out of grasses, and forging enormous thrones made of fruits, vegetables, and other edible delights.

The dome is aboil with bees, beetles, and butterflies as the rivals craft giant bug puppets out of flowers and shop for the first challenge. The teams take on an assignment combining floristry with fashion, working with thousands of cut flowers to create couture gowns for human models. Lions and lemurs and hares! There is not a petal in sight as the artists assemble fantastical furry brutes out of meadows and recycled accoutrements. The brigades have a delicious new task to attack, forging enormous thrones made of fruits, vegetables, and other comestible delights. Fireworks burst, cyclones curve, and gourmandizers fly when the rivals use various dried flowers to form floating puppets suspended in the skyline. fighting for a spot in the semifinals, the brigades make their biggest puppets yet, capricious ocean brutes made from littoral shops and sand waste. The rivals get their hands dirty in their first challenge outside the path, planting evergreen titans that burst out of the ground. In a fairy-tale ending, the teams build scenes based on "Jack and the Beanstalk". "Hansel and Gretel", and "Rapunzel", and one is declared a winner.

Witnessing the diligence of the contestants, as they stood some 15 hours each day with consistent energy flow, testifying creative prowess into each new constructive idea, was worth admiring. It was an entirely new rendition of a series to enjoy and learn from. 

“ Without trees, we can not inhabit the earth ”- Bill Mollison.

In retrospect, gardens have not only been destinations I have traveled to—they have cared for me, instructed me in endurance, motivated imagination, and provided comfort during hard times. My odyssey through diverse landscapes, from all parts of India to the United States of America to Middle Eastern nations, is a testament to the redemptive power of natural sanctuary. As I continue to water my saplings each morning, I also nourish a deeper connection with myself, forever rooted in the memories of my past. I have created a karesansui corner in my balcony—it’s my escape within a haven. Every time I plant a seed, I feel a little more alive, watching hope quietly germinate.

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