Squabble over lawn space

Sonu, our gardener, is a typical millennial. He likes trendy jeans and expensive sports shoes, commutes on a motorbike, frequently varies his shades, and doesn’t like getting his hands dirty — which is a disadvantage in his job. He has been tasked with tending to the plants at home, which isn’t really arduous, but Sonu is a shirker. He won’t compost, fibs about re-potting, grumbles when plants need to be lifted indoors, and is often truant. The only thing he is diligent about is frequently ordering saplings from a nursery — “for a commission”, my wife informs me. He is always asking for a raise. He works at multiple homes and no one has a kind word to say about him. Though he is a rogue, he manages to hold on to his freelance jobs because of his good-natured charm.

 
Omkar is the maali who tends to the greens around our cottage on the Yamuna’s flood banks. His is a full-time job, and he does it with the instinct of a farmer. It is thanks to him we have a year’s supply of potatoes in store, and are kept supplied with the season’s vegetables — though why he thinks brinjals require the largest patch of the kitchen garden I cannot say. Thanks to him, we have been introduced to several vegetables that don’t make it to the market, and even if we don’t care much for them, they add variety to our diet. He has planted both black gram and white gram, and we have benefitted from a constant supply of tomatoes and chillies. Already, the wheat crop has been replaced with corn. Soon, there will be melons, but also — alas — bottle gourd and bitter gourd. Yet, I forgive him, because he runs to fetch us mulberries from one neighbour’s farm, and fresh buttermilk from another. The barter trade works to our benefit.

 
If Sonu knows nothing about vegetables, Omkar knows nothing about flowers. He is amused by how much land is “wasted” on blooms that, while they look pretty, contribute little to one’s life. Every time Sonu or my wife appear with yet more flower seeds for planting, Omkar’s dismay is evident. The two squabble over the grass for the lawn, arguing about the better variety, whether to use river sand or clayey soil, and whether it’s time to mow. Sonu prefers ornamental lemon and mandarin shrubs, Omkar thinks them rubbishy and would rather have fruits that have some use. Both owe fealty to their own teams of labour and are constantly trading stories about the incapability of the other.

 

A Dutch colleague recently bought us a packet of tulip bulbs from Schiphol airport. It was a thoughtful gift, but quite impractical. With Delhi’s heat touching 42 degrees, no tulips are likely to flower — not now at any rate. Omkar isn’t much bothered by this, but Sonu is very taken with the “imported” buds. He has advised us to store the bulbs in the fridge and to keep them dry by rotating them every few days by bringing them out till it’s time to plant them in November. This has got the cook, who must dedicate a shelf for this, riled. “Memsahib,” she has declared, “if this tulip-shulip likes the cold so much, why not let them grow in the fridge?” My wife is giving the matter her serious consideration.