A New Delhi barsati’s wild green secret

I often imagine the garden conspiring behind my back, rearranging itself overnight just to surprise me every morning. Two to three species compose themselves in a pot or the bathtub, springing up in places they were carried to by the wind or the many species of birds that call the city its home. Sometimes, I walk out with the hose and feel like I’m stepping into a portal, a different time and place.

Kush would say this kind of intuitive, untamed growing is the result of unlearning. "The process of making gardens in homes," he told me once, "can be a kind of unlearning."

There’s a system we’ve inherited—one that treats gardens as things to be owned and ordered, not observed or loved.

From the start, Kush’s role wasn’t just that of a consultant. He was a builder, educator, silent conspirator, and the maali who stuck around. His design was thoughtful and exacting—sensitive to my routines, the budget, the sun, the railings, even Delhi’s infamous dust storms. He introduced drought-resistant plants, self-seeding varieties, and a lightweight potting mix that allows me to shift and move things as the garden evolves.

We designed with time in mind—what the garden could become with neglect, and how it could heal with return. There were days, even months, when I felt low and distant. The garden showed it. During one difficult summer, I forgot to water for nearly a week. The leaves burned. The soil cracked. When Kush visited, he didn't scold. He just gently reminded me how watering—even in our worst moments—can become an act of anchoring. He shared how it helped him through his own depressive spells, how lifting a hose could be the smallest step out of the hardest day.

Kush's approach stands in contrast to traditional maalis—the gardeners whose practices often come from rote habit or quick fixes. "They sweep up fallen leaves, pluck yellow ones before they fall, discard garden waste as garbage instead of mulch," he explained. "They see anything that crawls or flies as a pest. Bees might sting, birds eat the fruit, butterflies lay eggs on the leaves—it’s all seen as damage, not life."

We knew we didn’t want that. And so, this garden was consciously made to be habitat-friendly. We don’t use chemicals. We admire chewed-up leaves as signs of life. We spread coconut husk mulch to protect the soil and shelter critters. A bug hotel sits nestled among the pots, built for solitary bees. We’ve even welcomed tiny snails, hitchhikers from a water nursery, who now live quietly in our miniature aquatic patch.

THE GIFT OF PRESENCE

I follow butterflies until they vanish into the thickness of the Bougainvillea and Giloy. I remember thinking once: nothing here moves in a straight line, and that’s exactly the point. The Giloy, teaches you a lesson on co-existence and camaraderie. It is at all times extending, and reaching out to the other plants, inter-twining with the branches of a willing comrade.

Spring is my garden’s most mischievous season. One year, the shankhpushpam (bluepea) returned in a riot of indigo, opening like small velvet mouths toward the morning sun. Their scientific name is Clitoria ternatea, which is both anatomically accurate and a delightfully unsubtle way for nature to say, good morning.

By the time Delhi summer arrives, the garden shifts from playful to parched. The sun presses down hard. Leaves curl inward. There have been times I returned after weeks away to find my garden dry, drooping, half-brown. It felt like heartbreak. But all is never lost. Watering twice a day becomes a slow act of repair. A kind of prayer. A ritual of return. And slowly, green seeps back in—hesitant at first, then a little bolder each day. Healing, like growing, doesn’t happen overnight. But it happens.

By autumn, the letting go begins. The garden leans. The vines get tangled. Everything softens into itself. I’ve buried many things here —small creatures who visited, lived, and left. A bird my cats chased. Pond fish who couldn’t adjust to their new water. A dying bee I once fed a drop of honey to, because I read it might help. She didn’t survive. But in the weeks to follow, the bougainvillea and giloy stretched into a perfect heart around the plastered walls of my barsati. Coincidence, maybe. Or maybe a quiet reminder that every gesture matters.