Love flowers from bougainvilleas.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 6th March 2005.
By Geeta Patel.

There were five of us besides Father and Mother. Two boisterous boys followed by a welcomed girl and later, a chubby boy. There was a space of roughly two-and-a-half years between each child. After a period of five years, a surprise came along - me.

We were all of different temperaments and personalities. Father, just like the cowboys in the movies he frequented, was the type to "shoot first and ask questions later".

There were many mischievous episodes, in school and at home, and once caught, we were duly punished. The type of punishment varied with the mischief committed. It was tough growing up under martial law, but we were a loyal lot who ran to Mother when things got rough. Cuddled up in her saree, which smelled of coriander and chapattis, we found comfort, respite and many words of advice.

Through the knowing eyes of the many neighbors in close-knit Pearl Garden, Fair Park in Ipoh, I made sense of our family, my being. Through their conversations, peppered with wide observations of our daily routine, we realized we were a blessed lot who had access to many luxuries others did not.

We began to see past Father's strict demeanor and Mother's all-knowing remonstrations. We began to see Father as a responsible parent who made time for his noisy family each Sunday.

I also began to see Father as a pruning artist as he tended to his colorful riotous garden.

There were many varieties of flowers in the garden at our house. They were housed in different ways as well - some in the ground, others in different types of clay pots. I could hardly remember the names rattled off by Father, who, when he could not remember scientific names, would create his own versions and name the flowers according to their shape or texture.

Besides the ubiquitous rose and marigold, the one plant that he could pronounce and I could remember was the bougainvillea. Oh, Father grew them in a riot of colors all around the perimeter of the garden. From here, not only did I learn the glamorous spelling of the plant, I began to get acquainted with the different colors they evolved into as they grew taller, larger and older. To me, they were flowers with leaves, thorns and gnarled trunks. But to Father, they were his existence.

Now grown up, and with a garden of my own, I believe I know why he regarded them as his life. The flowers were us, the children; the pots and the ground were the different types of opportunities provided. The water and nutrients were the nourishment to help the flowers develop. Likewise, we, too, developed under the care, guidance and sustenance provided.

The different colors of the bougainvillea reflected its different varieties.

Metaphorically, that was us - with our different personalities. As the flowers grew, their colors changed; so did we, as we aged. We developed and matured, and because our needs were different, we, for good or worse, underwent some changes as well.

Father treated the flowers, especially his bougainvilleas, like his children. And indeed, they were, for through pruning, weeding, watering and a little bit of tender conversation, he learnt how to nurture and nourish them so that we could grow tall, strong and adaptable.