Cold winds of Bengaluru gushing through my windows woke me up yesterday. I found

myself in a sea of nebulisers, inhalers and cough syrups. Clinging to my hot mug of coffee

for the longest time, I declared it “a cold day.” My staff — my maid and my cook — stood in

the kitchen with their bare hands dipped in icy tap water at 6 a.m., one squeezing the wet

mop, the other washing vegetables. They looked at me, shocked. Wrapped in a monkey cap, a

Jaipur rug, and resting my feet on an American sofa, I suddenly felt guilty. It was my first

winter in Bengaluru, after all. I forgave myself for the first-timer’s sin of saying something so

contextual to the wrong set of people.

That cold morning, my thoughts revolved around my son’s sleep. Should I wake him up

now? Would ten minutes make him late? Should I kiss his forehead gently or switch off the

fan and tease him for being lazy? I knew I was overthinking, but I couldn’t escape the curse

mothers suffer from — a curse that places them inside a box. A box called home.

So I walked around my box: packing bags, polishing shoes, ironing uniforms — dreaming of

holidays in the meadows of Kashmir and the backwaters of Kerala. Neither was going to

happen, an instinct reminded me. I was moving into a new house and had put all my money

into buying a villa. Like a contestant in an obstacle race, I was simply hopping from one box

into a larger one.

I longed for life outside this box, and Lalbagh Botanical Garden felt like an answer. For days

I had been reading about the proposed tunnel road and the protestors who stood against it. My

curiosity nudged me towards the garden. I drove through the smoggy city, chasing the wind

and my own need for clarity.

Placed gracefully in Mavalli, Lalbagh greeted me with its ancient charm. After a quick stop

for hot coffee at Anand Bhavan opposite the gate, I crossed the road and stepped into the

canopy. My eyes dazzled at the greenery. Giant trees whispered secrets as the wind rustled

through their leaves. Standing under them felt more peaceful than any spa Bengaluru could

offer for thousands of rupees.

The sunlight filtered perfectly through the branches, like a warm hug from my mother. I felt

centred. I saved the money I would have spent on therapy that day.

Some trees looked like Angelina Jolie’s hair in Maleficent, spiralling wildly into the sky.

Others leaned like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Perhaps they bent down to kiss the earth, I

wondered. I, too, surpass my boundaries to reach out to my son — maybe I am this leaning

tree.

As I walked deeper into the garden, I realised nature was an extension of me. The towering

trees, the quiet corners, the winding paths — all held metaphors I had ignored in my boxed-

up life. Under the sprawling canopy of Lalbagh, I found the strength to step outside the

narrow walls I had built around myself.

In a city full of noise, Lalbagh reminded me that sometimes the quietest places speak the

loudest.

Finding myself in Lalbagh Botanical Garden.docx