Baba was our resident gardener. He told us tales of big brinjals, bright pumpkin flowers, sprite okra that grew in the farmland in what’s now Bangladesh, where he grew up. In Delhi, in our rented place surrounded by dark, healthy soil, he made our garden flourish with happy peas, bright roses, lauki, bell peppers, chilies and so many varieties of beans we couldn’t keep count. My role as the youngest, was to bring the water hose to water the plants, and my elder sister, Didi’s, was to add soil, and keep the plants happy.
In 2026, Didi still grows the best flowers, shady trees and chases squirrels away from her yard. The only difference is that now she lives in the northeast and thinks fall colors are beautiful where bomb cyclone blizzards are part of life.
