Blogmas 2020 Day Seventeen: Blue Christmas

 A lot of the times it's easy to come off as erratic for your choices of bents.
I didn't fathom a lot of things my parents did, when I was younger. I could, but I didn't.
"Hold the bottle tightly." "Not near the glass!" "Who's going to pay for this?"
It was easier as kids to infer it was always about the money, until you start yielding some of your own. Which then, you employ to start piecing yourself a beautiful life, and that's when you cotton onto all the times you thought they were being mean. I've only latterly corralled the parallels between me, and my parents in the way I take care of my house, car, belongings. It's one thing to look after something well, because you wanted that item; because it's selfish, it's a materialistic response to your materialistic desires. It's a whole different thing when it's a part of your own world you've cemented together.

I grew up in Delhi. For those of you who don't know, Delhi means a lot of forest, greens all around, balconies and verandahs in your home, wide roads, and the smell of Gulmohar in the air when winters befell. And, one of the things I barely descry now are the plants. Either the houses in Bombay resemble too much to a matchbox, or people are robotically, too busy running around to be taking care of another life (but God forbid if anyone comments on their five children).
I saw this often as a child. Everyone's houses with a lot of plants, and everyone taking care of them. And, I grew up with that as well. If there's one thing I can always recall is a pot of mint leaves, and palms. I remember seeing my mother upset when a big pot of a money plant broke, in one of their rented apartments way back when I was hardly able to cogitate; there isn't a tonne that I remember from that period in life, but I do remember this. It was only a plant to me then. It's not anymore.

There are things that can be bought, and there are things that you fashion methodically, and piecemeal by piecemeal, by pouring love into them. Plants, getting the palette for your home together gradually, making certain the coffee table books all around thread a story together, making sure everything around you has a reason to exist. I understand why they frenzied at times, because they knew, not just the one in your bank, but everything around you adds on to your wealth. And, on behalf of fifteen beautiful plants, a tonne of beautiful books, and a psychotically organised hourse, I can vouch for this to be true. (only still fifteen more for become the crazy plant lady)

More tomorrow. Until then.

Artist: Jonathan Dahl

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,
A.