We recently moved into our new home and have been thoroughly enjoying its insides as much as its gardens. The most exciting part about its gardens are the two big trees: The mighty maple in the backyard and the magnificent birch wood tree in the front yard. The maple tree, with its strong branches and leafy shade invites cardinals, robins, chickadees and hummingbirds all day. The birch wood tree with its beautiful white peeling bark and serrated leaves makes the loveliest rustling sound in the breeze.
In one corner of the garden, a fountain of rose bushes sprout, the reticent buds not yet revealing the colour of its flower. There are other perennials too - forsythias, irises and lilies in other flower beds, and a few more, whose names I’m still learning.
We have been lucky to have inherited these treasures from previous homeowners. Like they would have been, to have inherited the maple and birch wood trees from the first family that planted them 50 years ago! Planting trees has to be one of the most significant manifestations of the selfless human spirit. Yet, generations of humans continue to plant trees even though they themselves might move or migrate.
In the backdrop of world news that unnerves us, especially the most recent terror attack in India, such pondering seems frivolous, even meaningless. It makes one almost cynical. The dense pine forest lining the expansive meadow of Baisaran in Pahalgam stood witness to gruesome murders of innocent tourists. It almost makes one forget that hatred and cruelty too, are manifestations of a broken human spirit. And the question that precedes the “who did it” is “why was it even allowed to happen”. The gross failure of intelligence and security in a state marred with unrest is beyond comprehension.
“Mama!” our younger daughter shouts from the backyard, snapping my attention back from Baisaran. “The first irises have bloomed. They are purple and yellow - my second and third most favourite colours in the world,” she says, flashing her toothiest smile. Blue is her favourite colour. I think of the previous homeowners and send them a silent word of gratitude. These lands too, were once snatched from their indigenous inhabitants more than a century ago.
{{/usCountry}}“Mama!” our younger daughter shouts from the backyard, snapping my attention back from Baisaran. “The first irises have bloomed. They are purple and yellow - my second and third most favourite colours in the world,” she says, flashing her toothiest smile. Blue is her favourite colour. I think of the previous homeowners and send them a silent word of gratitude. These lands too, were once snatched from their indigenous inhabitants more than a century ago.
{{/usCountry}}It took the country many decades to acknowledge and apologise for the atrocities and the multi-generational impacts of the policies instituted by the regime then. Not everything that the West does is holy grail, but to take a leaf out of their book might help embalm the wounds of our own brethren.
Somewhere between blooming irises and swaying birch leaves, life insists on growing. We inherit sorrows, struggles, but also hope and happiness. And gardens too. So, we keep sowing seeds we may never see flower. I hear our daughters’ laughter through the rustling of the leaves, and I think, love too must be planted.
seeratsandhu25@yahoo.com
The writer is a Canada-based freelance contributor