The Garden

There she was, Bloom, watching groceries from her basket cascading on the metallic counter. The cashier swiftly scanned each item. The beeping sound echoed in her ears, and Bloom's eyes flickered between the mundane groceries and the cashier's face—an ornate facade of merriment.

Humans of the twenty-first century have mastered the art of masking despondence and coming to terms with loss. For life goes on. Life has to go on. With this thought, Bloom endeavored to generate a jovial smile while handing over a bill to the cashier. In exchange, he gave her change and a receipt. She stuffed both in her bag before giving a quick nod and finally heading out of the store.

On her way back home, in an attempt to engage her barren mind, she detoured around her neighborhood. Houses stood adjacently, wearing similar hues of yellow and beige, looking so young, like infants eager to explore the world. Sadly, these infants' windows were curtained. She continued strolling when a few words came into her vision: Home Sweet Home. These words were imprinted on the wall of a genial house. Back at the supermarket, while getting her items billed, the cashier had shown her some wooden wall hangings, for they were on sale. He placed a few in front of her, and immediately one caught her sight. It was a vintage-looking wooden plate with the same phrase, "home sweet home," engraved over it. The feeling of dejection swarmed around her. She wondered if the four-walled premises where she resided were still worthy of being titled home. No, not at all.

As she got closer to the residence, her mind began drifting to vivid memories of her recently deceased widowed mother. The day before leaving for a business trip, together they had baked a vanilla cake. Her mother persistently topped it with an ample amount of pomegranate seeds. It gave the white cake the appearance of being eclipsed by succulent, bright red crystals. At first, Bloom tried to stop her, but knowing that would have only snatched a warmly spread smile off her face, she restrained herself. It was only a few weeks before her demise that Mother had developed an ardent appetite for the fruit of the dead. Her eyes regularly spotted pomegranates on the dining table for almost two weeks. Perhaps a foretelling which went beyond Bloom's perception.

On recalling the sweet, agonizing recollection, her eyes brimmed with tears, threatening to spill over all the emotions embedded in her swelled heart. Wiping the stream, she stored this reminiscence of Mother in the drawer of her mind. Cautiously. Like a child apprehensive of clumsiness and breaking something fragile and precious.

An apple fell out from her grocery bag, pulling her also out from the tornado of grief. She groaned in frustration and tried to get a grip on it. She failed. The apple rolled down the sidewalk freely, as if a dog was unleashed in a field. It finally came to a halt once it hit the fence of a house. Bloom grasped the apple tightly, almost digging her nails into its skin. Her eyes shifted from the apple to the garden which lay majestically on the other side of the fence. It was a moderate-sized, non-fancy garden, yet it appeared as if a rainbow had dispersed all its colors over it. Daisies, sunflowers, poppies, dahlias, and many others were dancing to the rhythm of the wind. For a moment, Bloom speculated if the breeze was really this gusty. She took a step closer to the fence, allowing herself to observe the allure better. Some flowers were in deep embrace of each other, some were whispering secrets, while others were just cherishing the unfurled serenity. The jewels of water droplets on the petals added the essence of freshness. Swirls of pungent fragrance of blossoms and dewy grass were filling the air with aroma.

So much warmth. So much solace. Like Mommy's hug.

Mesmerized by the view, she lost track of time. The next moment, her attention was diverted toward a wilting figure emerging from the house, holding a spade. The figure came near the fence and stared at her quizzically. Pull yourself together. Stay calm. Bloom cleared her throat and nervously uttered, "This garden of yours is really beautiful." The old man's expression softened, and he finally replied, "Thank you, my child." "Would you like to accompany me for evening tea?" the old man continued. She was taken aback by his request. When was the last time she had company to share tea with? Not in weeks.

As the sun began to set, the two neighbors sat comfortably on wooden chairs. A small table, placed between them, held a steaming pot of tea, two white cups, and a plate of cookies. The sound of birds chirping and the occasional rustle of leaves worked as nature's orchestra. Bloom complimented the tea and said, "The tea is really refreshing. Thank you for such a generous gesture, sir." Hearing the word sir, he snickered and replied, "Call me Raymond. As soon as I retired, I was resolved to move here. This is my wife's birthplace. Though she isn't with me anymore, this place keeps me rooted with her." He surely adored his wife wholeheartedly. "You must be a neighbor of mine, right?"

"Oh yes. Sorry for introducing myself this late. My name is Bloom. I work as an editor for a news website, and I live right down the street. Alone."

"Alone?" "Uh—sorry?" "You live alone?" "Yes, I lost my father when I was ten and my mother a few months ago." "I'm sorry for your loss, child." He began after a pause, "You can visit me anytime; I guess we can keep each other company." Bloom nodded in agreement. A similar ache began welling up in her heart. By virtue of a notification from work, her phone chimed, and she didn't get the time to drown in the ache. It was a brief regarding an upcoming event. Before beginning to collect her bags and other items, she stated, "It was really nice meeting you, Mr. Raymond. Thank you again for your hospitality. I was totally worn out from work, but the refreshing tea and this exquisite garden made my exhaustion dissipate."

"You're being too humble, dear. Everyone has a beautiful garden, right? I'm sure you also possess a splendid one!" Bloom shook her head in disagreement and said, "I don't have a garden in my house," followed by an awkward laugh. The old man smiled and began stating, while pointing a finger toward her head, "Certainly you have one here." She frowned in confusion. This reaction didn't go unnoticed by him. He started elaborating, "Our mind, my child. I find it identical to an actual garden. Grass, shrubs, and flowers are all treasured moments germinating from the seeds—seeds of time. Now and then, it fills one's life with euphoria. It is this garden which keeps one alive from the inside. And that makes us gardeners! Ha-ha." A contented face, with wrinkles carrying marks of time. Time of joy. Time of despair.

Bloom stared at him in amusement. She finally broke the silence. "Wow, Mr. Raymond, I never tried looking at things in such a manner." "Well, keeping the same old glasses on for too long would show you a scratchy vision. So I replace them with new ones and say goodbye to the old ones."

"You are quite a philosopher, Mr. Raymond." "Not hearing it for the first time." A faint laugh escaped from Bloom's mouth. The next moment, something ran through her mind. Mr. Raymond had efficiently read it on her face with his new glasses, for he inquired, "Got something in your mind? Go ahead and ask. I'll be happy to clarify your doubts or anything." Slowly she began, "You said that the mind is a garden bearing flowers and aroma. But what about weeds? No garden is free of weeds." The old man's eyes sparkled before answering. "You have raised an interesting question, dear. You see, life is not always rainbows and sunshine. Consequently, our garden of the mind does consist of dull, resentful weeds. Now, you might ponder what exactly these weeds are. Such weeds are those inevitable and gloomy moments that one is bound to face. Although they have no substantial function to perform, yet they are part of this garden. From time to time, one needs to uproot them, as their prolonged presence can erode flowering plants."

He gave Bloom a minute to let these heavy words sink into her mind. In the meantime, he went back to his house and returned holding something. He extended his hand toward her, presenting a small packet. He spoke up, "Take these flower seeds and make an ethereal garden of your own. Make sure to look after your garden. It is in your hands whether to transform it into a vibrant or a bleak one. And do remember to uproot the unwanted weeds." Fascinated by his words and generosity, she was compelled to accept it.

After thanking him with moist eyes, her gaze shifted from his face to the garden. It was now radiating with a golden glow under the setting sun. The feeling of liberation sprouted in her heart. A caterpillar bounded silently, finally breaking through the cocoon and ready to take flight like a butterfly, lifting away all the burden that she had been carrying for a long time.

Her routine on the weekends has altered since the meeting with Mr. Raymond. Now she spends most of her leisure time nurturing her garden, keeping the house tidy, and baking, owing to the fact that her interest in baking has rekindled. These things allow her to remain closer to her dear mother.

Just like any other morning, sun rays filtered through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow on the countertop. Today, it was cluttered with a greased and flour-dusted cake tin, measuring cups, and a whisk dripping with batter. And there she was, Bloom. Her busy hands poured the batter, smoothed it, and carefully placed it in the preheated oven. As the timer ticked down, the smell of vanilla began spreading through the house. In the meantime, she went to have a look at her garden. Some shoots were pushing their way through the soil. Tiny buds were unfurling on the young plants. Their delicate heads bent toward the sun's direction, enhancing the brilliant colors. An early riser, daffodils had already made their appearance. The petals beckoned as she reached out to caress them. The golden yellow petals were cradling the corona and danced gently in the wind. The murmur of new growth was filling the air with a promise of a beautiful symphony of life. The oven beeped twice, signaling the cake was done. Once it had cooled down, she cut a slice and packed it in a cake box. Hurriedly, she removed her apron and made her way to the neighbor's house. She didn't have to ring the bell, for Mr. Raymond was spotted in the front yard plowing the soil of his garden. A shadow casting over the leaves of the plant made him turn back.

"Good morning, Mr. Raymond!" "Jolly morning, Bloom. Someone is looking quite thrilled today." "I just baked some cake, so here's the first slice of it. For you." "That's so sweet of you, child. Come and allow me to make you a reviving cup of tea." "Sorry, not today. Actually, I have invited a friend of mine for brunch today. We are meeting after a couple of months. It was I who chose to cut ties with her. But now is the time I should mend that mistake." Her words were half laced with regret and the remaining half with hope. The wise old man remarked with his angelic voice, "Bloom, it's never too late to mend mistakes and friendships." "You never fail to comfort me, Mr. Raymond." "Like you never fail to bake some delectable cake!" Their voices rose and fell with laughter. "My friend will be here any minute, so I should head back. To my home. Ah, thanks to my goldfish memory, I almost forgot to inform you—a daffodil has blossomed in my garden!" "My favorite! I guess your daffodil will have a visitor in the evening." "The visitor is cordially welcomed." As their small talk came to an end, Bloom bid a final goodbye to the old man before returning to her home.

About the Author:

Varsha Mathur is a final-year student pursuing a Bachelor's degree in English Literature at the Aligarh Muslim University. She is an aspiring writer engaged in endeavors to weave tapestries of words. Her writings primarily aim to unfold the inner landscape of the human mind through outer-world descriptions. Her works, including self-composed poetry and book reviews, have been published on online platforms like Split Poetry India as well as in the annual magazines of Aligarh Muslim University and Women's College (AMU).