Mulberries in the Backyard

 "Don’t overwater them, they’ll die,” Anand uncle used to say. Not in a philosophical way, but just like that, casually, like someone who’s figured out one cheat code to life. We lived in what was basically a jungle. Not metaphorically, a literal jungle in the middle of the city. Wild, messy, overgrown. The kind of place kids dared each other to cross after sunset. People had legends about our house. “Don’t go there at night, there are skulls scattered around.” Dramatic, but very believable when you’re ten.

Once, our milkman got late in the evening. He pushed through the bushes and heard a snake hiss. Man ran for his life screaming, “Are Raam bacha le! (He was Muslim, by the way.)

Funny, how in crisis, we call out to whoever’s on speed dial, even if it’s a god you don’t officially subscribe to. I guess in fear, we choose familiarity over formality.

Then came Anand uncle, with his wife and a little kid. During our first conversation, they told us, “He’s from America, she’s from London, and the kid is from Thailand.” And for a 10-year-old, that was comedy gold. I laughed like it was the best joke I’d ever heard. Looking back, it kind of still is.

At that time, I had my life sorted. Study, college, job, marriage, kids, neat little boxes to tick. But then, the jungle outside our home slowly started becoming a garden. Not because someone lectured us on changing perspectives, but because we were just living around people who were different. And being around different people makes you... less certain, in the best way.

We started speaking in English. In small indian towns even if you didn’t know shit and as long as you said,“I don’t know shit,” in an American accent, people would go: “Bro, this guy is so cool, he DOESN"T know shit.” Turns out, confidence + cluelessness = cool.

The jungle slowly became a garden. Bushes turned into soft, obedient grass. Tall trees stopped hiding fruits. And one day, we realised there was a Mulberry tree behind our house.

Mulberries. Grown in tropical climates. And for a 10-year-old who hadn’t even seen the sea,
Those berries were my first taste of what the tropics must feel like.

Every morning, Anand uncle watered the plants, and eventually, we joined in, me, my sister and our brother. 5 people, 5 rows, and 1 long water pipe with that smell… of moist soil…God, I can still sniff it in my memory.

After watering, we’d go to Anand uncle’s for breakfast, sometimes American, sometimes English.
Except pancakes, we hated all of it. Respectfully.

I don’t know where Anand uncle is today. I don’t know if he remembers the garden he made out of that jungle. If he ever thinks about the mulberries. But I hope he’s still somewhere, teaching someone, or maybe himself, how to water things gently.

I’m 21 now. Today, I moved into a new apartment. In a new city. This one’s mine. This is my plant, but here? Speaking English isn’t cool. You can say, “I don’t know shit” with a British accent and still look unemployed.

The last time I watered a plant was in a mobile game to complete a misson. It gave me 3 XP and zero peace.

But today, I bought 5 plants and with them, I bought 5 minutes for myself.

5 minutes to smell the moist soil again.
5 minutes to remember I’m still growing.

Still figuring out how not to overwater myself.