The fact that year after year she carried away some of the best prizes in the Rose and Chrysanthemum Show in December as well as in the Annual Flower Show in February never ceased to amaze the more sophisticated inhabitants of Brahmpur. The committee of the Race Club marvelled that her roses displayed a compactness and freshness that theirs could never attain; and the wives of the executives of Burmah Shell or the Praha Shoe Company even deigned, in their anglicized Hindi, to ask her once or twice what it was she put into her lawn that made it so even and springy and green. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor would have been hard-pressed to answer even if she had fully understood their brand of Hindi. She simply stood with gratefully folded hands, accepting their compliments and looking rather foolish, until they gave up. Shaking their heads they decided that she was indeed foolish, but that she — or more probably her head gardener—‘had a gift’. Once or twice they had tried to bribe him to leave her by offering him twice his present salary; but the head mali, who was originally from Rudhia, was content to remain at Prem Nivas and see the trees he had planted grow tall and the roses he had pruned bloom brightly. His disagreement with her about the side lawn had been amicably resolved. It had been left slightly uneven, and had become something of a sanctuary for her favourite bird.
The two under-gardeners were in government service, and had been allotted to Mahesh Kapoor in his capacity as Minister of Revenue. They loved the garden at Prem Nivas, and were unhappy that they were to be torn away from it. ‘Why did Minister Sahib resign?’ they asked sadly.
‘You will have to ask Minister Sahib,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, who herself was not happy about his decision, and thought it was an unwise one. Nehru, after all, despite his carping and complaining about his party, was still in Congress. Surely any precipitate action by his followers — such as resignation — was premature. The question was, would it help to force the Prime Minister’s hand, and make him leave as well, thus giving birth to a new and possibly more vigorous party? Or would it merely weaken his position in his own party and make things worse than before?
‘They will assign us some other house,’ said the under-gardeners with tears in their eyes. ‘Some other Minister and some other Memsahib. No one will treat us as well as you have.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. She was a gentle-hearted and soft-spoken woman, and never raised her voice at her employees. In consequence, and because she often asked about their families, and helped them out in small ways, they loved her.
‘What will you do without us, Memsahib?’ asked one.
‘Can you work for me part-time at Prem Nivas?’ she asked. ‘That way you won’t lose the garden you’ve worked so hard on.’
‘Yes — for an hour or two each morning. The only thing is—’
‘Of course, you’ll be paid for your work,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, anticipating their awkwardness and making a calculation of her household expenses. ‘But I will have to employ someone else full-time. Do you know of anyone?’
‘My brother would be a good man,’ said one.
‘I didn’t know you had a brother,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor in surprise.
‘Not my real brother — my uncle’s son.’
‘All right. I’ll let him work for a month on probation, and Gajraj will tell me how good he is.’
‘Thank you, Memsahib. This year we will see that you win First Prize for the best garden.’
This was one prize that had eluded Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, and she thought how pleasant it would be to win it. But, doubting her own abilities, she smiled at their ambition.
‘That would be a great feat,’ she said.
‘And don’t worry about Sahib not being a Minister. We’ll get you plants from the government nursery at cheap rates. And from other places too.’ Good gardeners were adept at filching plants from here and there, or coaxing their fellow-gardeners to part with some of their superfluous seedlings.
‘Good,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘Tell Gajraj to come here. I want to discuss the layout of things now that I have a bit of time. If Sahib becomes a Minister again, I’ll be doing nothing except arranging for cups of tea.’
The malis were rather pleased at this small irreverence. The head mali was summoned, and Mrs Mahesh Kapoor talked to him for a while. The new front lawn was being planted in careful rows, shoot by shoot, and a corner of the lawn was already a mild emerald in colour. The rest was mud, except for the stone path on which they were walking.
Mrs Mahesh Kapoor told him what the others had said about the Flower Show. His opinion was that the reason why they won second and not first prize for the best garden overall was twofold. First, that Mr Justice Bailey (who had won for three years in succession) was bullied by his wife into spending half his income on his garden. They hired a dozen gardeners. Secondly, every bush, shrub or flower in his garden was planted with a particular date in mid-February in mind, the date of the Flower Show. That was when everything was at its most brilliant. Gajraj could arrange something similar if Mrs Mahesh Kapoor desired. But it was clear from his expression that he was sure she did not desire it. And the unevenness of the side lawn this year would not help either.
‘No, no — that wouldn’t be a garden at all,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘Let’s plan the winter garden just like we always do — with different flowers blooming at different times, so that it is always a pleasure to sit out. And where that neem tree stood, we should plant a Sita ashok. Now is a good time.’ With great regret Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had agreed to have an old neem tree cut down two years ago because of her painful allergy to its blossom; the blankness of the spot had been a continual rebuke to her. But the one outside Maan’s window that he used to climb as a boy she had not had the heart to cut down.
Gajraj folded his hands. He was a thin, short man, gaunt of feature, barefooted, and dressed in a plain white dhoti and kurta. He looked dignified, more like the priest of a garden than a gardener. ‘Whatever you say, Memsahib,’ he said. After a while he added: ‘What do you think of the water lilies this year?’ He felt they deserved comment, and so far Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had said nothing about them. Her mind had probably been on other matters of late.
‘Let’s go over and have a look at them again,’ she said.
Gajraj, quietly pleased, walked on the muddy lawn beside Mrs Mahesh Kapoor as she negotiated the path slowly, pausing for a second by the pomelo tree. They stopped by the lily pond. The water was turbid, and filled with tadpoles. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor gazed for a minute at the round lily pads and the half-open lilies: pink, red, blue, and white. Three or four bees were buzzing about them.
‘No yellow ones this year?’ she asked.
‘No, Memsahib,’ said Gajraj, rather crestfallen.
‘They are very beautiful,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, continuing to look at the lilies.
Gajraj’s heart leapt up. ‘They are better than ever this year,’ he ventured. ‘Except that the yellow ones have not come out, I don’t know why.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘My children like the bright ones — red and blue. I think it is only you and I who care for the pale yellow lilies. But if they’ve died, can we get them from somewhere else next year?’