Missing a green thumb

Among my many flaws, if I have one strength, it is that I know my weaknesses. And of them, the one I can confirm with one hundred per cent certainty is that I have no green thumb.

Anyone who knows me will tell you there are no murderous streaks in me. A perfectly harmless specimen of humanity is how they would describe me. I am not so ambitious that I ride roughshod over others; not so aggressively paranoid that I destroy my own peace of mind; and not so violently obsessive that I destroy the thing I love. And yet, when it comes to plants, I am all of the above.

Healthy, happy little fellows grow pale and spectre thin in my care. The delicate ones simply lie down and die. There was a time when I had a whole garden in my apartment.

I read every plant care manual. I researched endlessly online. I learnt botanical names of every plant I owned and every detail of their life cycle. I memorised chemical compositions of fertilisers and their measurements in proportion to plant and pot size.

You could quiz me on any aspect of plant care and find me an expert. I spent my entire day with my plants, removing dead leaves, raking the soil (just once more, for good measure), pinching the tips, twirling the vines in the right direction for sunlight, and watering them (one more time, just in case).

Having read somewhere that Prince Charles talked to
his plants, I talked to mine constantly too.

I once conversed with my sickly Dahlia on how family life was detrimental to the pursuit of one's hobbies. Sadly, it didn't seem to enthuse her much.

Then I heard about Mozart's music and its ability to revive flagging spirits. My plants, I can confidently say, were all connoisseurs of Mozart's symphonies before they left their earthy abode.

I still read every article on plant care. I discuss the issue with any one who seems to know or has the free time. In the course of one such educative session, I learnt that what I am doing wrong is giving them too much care.

So I decided to give my gardening passion another chance. This time I bought hardy plants.

I hypnotised myself into ignoring them. I even placed them out of sight. I was determined not to kill them with love.

"Sorry darlings, TLC is going to be in short supply," I told my plants. "It's for your own good. Trust me. Or my friend."
I kept my eyes determinedly elsewhere.

I controlled my watering urges. I did not talk to them even when my family was insufferable and I needed a patient ear. In fact, I went nowhere near them for fear of loving them.

But I watched them surreptitiously. I observed the curl of their new leaves and the bend of their growing stems.

I also observed the yellow ochre turning to a burnt umber on their green leaves. But I kept away. I told my friend how I was following her advice.

She was pleased. "Good," she said. That was the day before disaster struck. My beautiful Aphelandra Squarrosa (Zebra Plant) was definitely dying.

And my Hedera Helix (vine). My Ficus Benjamina (fig tree) too. In a week's time, I was again an 'ungardened' flat-bound person.

Then I made one of the most difficult decisions of my life. I will never fall in love with those beautiful green things you call plants again.

And then another friend brought me a tray of little plants. "A surprise gift," she beamed. Beautiful, delicate Golden Pothos, Creeping Fig, Spider Plant and Pink Nerve.
I dared not touch them. "Don't worry, you can't kill them," she said. Little does she know...

Nirmala Mangalat is a writer based in Dubai