Gardens, when we travel
"I trust your Garden was willing to die ... I do not think that mine was—it perished with beautiful reluctance, like an evening star—" Emily Dickinson, in a letter to her Aunt Katie Sweetser, 1880 I stand perplexed, not knowing what to do with the few plants I had on the terrace of this house where I lived for some years now. So few, they somehow grew so beautifully in their respective containers without any special care. After a period of winter hibernation, most of them have come back with full vigor. During my short trips out of the city, some inevitably faded while others survived with incredible spirit. Time to leave the place once again, this time for a long time, may be. I say ‘may be’ because every time when I shifted out of this city in a definitive tone, I returned to it with equal speed. The city which saw more than half of my life’s doings…So, let me suffix it with a ‘may be’ this time, in all humility. There were gardens always, wherever I lived. On