The houses are all uniform, probably built to meet the postwar housing crisis in the mid-50s. At that time, they may have been considered slightly down-market, in a nice area but at the far edge of town. But now, the cars parked in the driveways give away the gentrification. Across the nastily wet and cold April, the gardens remain desolate rectangles of grey-green grass and wet brown sheds and fences. But as the month ends and the weather reluctantly picks up towards summer, all this changes.
An apple tree with it multiple menorah of bare branches suddenly starts to complicate its lines with buds. In May, more and more birds have been arriving at the nature reserve across the road from the houses. In the absolute absence of traffic noise, the birdsong chorus in the morning sounds like a particularly manic modern orchestra.
The only creatures unmoved by the weather are the constantly prowling pair of panther-sized black cats and the slightly smaller tabby. These three stalk through rain and shine, day and night, balancing on the fencing, defecating on people’s patios, dropping in and out of spaces that have the conceit of being private.
On warm days, especially on weekends, humans start to appear in the gardens. The bald man next door is apparently a DIY maniac, and his drilling and sawing fill up the afternoons. His garden is like a military laboratory, with different flowers cocked in silos like soft missiles about to launch.
The old couple, one ‘terrace’ up, have tuned their garden into a single field. With a couple of days of the weather becoming somewhat mild, the old man ploughed his entire yard into a dark loamy brown and probably planted it as well, probably with vegetables. Walking up and down their khet, this old pair have a bad habit of peering nakedly and curiously over the fence into our garden – something that drives my friend up the wall, if not the fence.
The next garden is patrolled from time to time by a young woman in a hijab. She seems to be doing several washes a week for several people, and the clothesline in her garden constantly vibrates with changing sentences in garment-semaphore. The same garden sometimes displays a coolio desi man with long hair and trendy shades. He clearly doesn’t do hijab. Instead, he cleans his racing bike and talks to neighbours with slow, expansive gestures. On her days off, my friend, an avid and expert gardener, starts to work on her patch right below my window. Having just moved into the house, she is anxious to establish her authority over the previous owner’s horticultural mis-accomplishments. So, week after week, carefully thought-out deliveries land at the garden gate:
New trellis fencing to make sure the old couple can’t keep peering over
Baby trees to break up the monotonous grass here and in the front lawn
Various pots of flowers, creepers, herbs and vegetables.
On one weekend, as I sit at my laptop depleting the house’s stock of ale, my friend transforms the whole unkempt patch of grass into an organised (but not militaristic) garden-in-waiting. The grass now has dark brown borders where she has dug up the earth and planted. The saplings have been inserted at strategic points where they will catch the sun. The lawn has been mowed by the brand new manual mower that I’ve helped her unpack. Soon, she assures me, there will be lots of flowers, followed by tomatoes and herbs and whatnot as summer unfurls.
I look at all these people working on their gardens and carrying out other chores, and remark to my host how divorced from physical work urban Indians of my class have become. ‘Oh, we can address that,’ she says, ‘You can mow the lawn next week. It’s the best upper-body workout you can get!’
