THE PLANT KILLER’S LOVER
During the first months of our dating, you
used to call me a slut, for
I was still sleeping with other people. You
told me it didn’t matter to you, you told me
how you avoided monogamy
just the way asthmatic patients avoided
dust, cold, ladyfingers, and curd. You
didn't know that, I was not
Just your Beloved Slut, but
I am also someone who hated
to word ‘relationship’. What's
In a marriage, I told you
Even before I had gulped down
one drink at Haus Khas Village,
in a dingy cheerful bar. What's in
calling ourselves married, or
in a relationship? I asked you,
holding you naked in
my arms, in a chilly night in Meghalaya, where
the clouds knocked
on the window panes, as we
turned evenings
into history, leaving
finished bottles of wines on the floor.
And then, you started
gifting me plants : the tulsi, for
which I teased you as
the Wealth Goddess of my house: the
jasmine, that I said you could
use to put on water while bathing,
or on your hair, if you ever grow it long enough.
I kept the jasmine by the bed, and
the tulsi outside, to welcome people. One day,
you gave me a cactus. You told me
it survives the heat, by storing water inside it. I laughed :
this is not how you impress a man who
loves Riesling and long walks and whiskeys. This is not how you
please a man who is in love with books and stories and poetry. You
said, even if we don't end up being together, those
plants will remind me of you with
their fragrance, green, and pricks but
that’s not what happened when
you left me for another man. In 2016,
the summer was brutal like enemy soldiers.
Colleagues who became friends were fired, and
an uncle who told me stories about movements and curfews
was mauled by a truck while singing a song. The
summer killed the tulsi, the jasmine by bed, even before it flowered, and
the cacti died after I poured whiskey on it.
I placed those plant corpses
on the table together like members of a family,
took pictures, sent those to you. That's when you called me names :
Beloved Slut. Whore. Plant Killer
Overwhelmed by grief, I
called you back immediately; come back, I said
You are the Plant Killer's Lover; together
we will finish bottles of Riesling again, and
this time open the windows to host clouds in our rooms;
we will walk down deer parks, river-fronts, beaches,
drink wine and beer in cheap noisy bars,
kiss openly in Modi's India. Come back,
see this is how to impress a man
who loves books, poetry and stories :
by not just gifting plants, but also
staying in the same house to water jasmine,
the tulsi, and discipline me
from pouring whiskey on cactus.