Whispering Plants

By Aakanksha Gupta

When I was a child, we had a very large garden. It was so beautiful and lush with green that every day, when I came back from school, I would spend at least half an hour with my botanical friends. Sometimes even the neighborhood kids would join me when I claimed that my plants could actually talk. Not like us, exactly—but through a different kind of frequency: Whispering.

Once, after I got a bad grade at school, I went straight to the garden like usual. I sat beside my apricot tree to cheer myself up and suddenly, it dropped an apricot right on my head. I yelped, “Hey!” It just fluttered its leaves as if it were saying, “Duhh, I was just trying to make you another Newton.”

Every morning and evening, I spent more time with them—watering, talking, laughing, just feeling the breeze while they swayed gently around me. It made me feel so fresh, so alive—like I was truly living in their world.

I would sit on the grass, caressing its blades, promising to never ever forget them. I swore I would water them daily.

But years passed. Academics became tougher. Life became noisier. So many changes happened to me—and around me—that I barely had any time left for my leafy friends. Slowly, I even stopped looking at them.

The younger me would have been furious if she knew I no longer hung out with “Leaf Ericsson,” “Queen Chlorophyll,” or “Sir Photosynthesis.” I was clever to name them like that back then, wasn’t I?

“Sunny,” the apricot tree, didn’t drop anything to tease me anymore. “Henry,” the grass, used to get all pointy and excited whenever I stepped into the garden—but now he just watched me walk past, ignored and forgotten.

You know how they say “taking someone for granted”?
Yes, that was me.

My mother still plucked flowers from the garden each morning to take to the temple. Those wooden, leafy beings begged for even a glance from me. “Sunny” well, the apricot jam was still delicious every summer. But there I was, a self-absorbed teenager who had no time for anyone but herself.

Eventually, my uncle and aunt moved in, and we had to shift to a new place. The garden had already dried up, almost like a drought had drained it of its soul. During the move, my mother sent me to fetch a pruning shear from the garden.

I had not touched “Henry” the grass so long. But when I did—he responded. Just like before; as if he had been waiting, patiently, all these years for that one moment of affection.

And then… plop “Sunny” dropped a rotten apricot on my head.
“Ouch!” I yelped.

But this time… she did not respond.

And so I end my story with a quiet, lingering guilt and a deep, echoing remorse in my heart.

To anyone reading this, whether your friends are real, imaginary, or even botanical, please, never take them for granted. If you do not nurture the connections around you, nature may stop whispering altogether.

And one day, even the things that once waited for you… might just forget to do so.

(Author is a legal analyst. He writes regularly on law, money laundering, and international affairs. Views are personal.)