Confessions of a plant talker

You are going to laugh or judge me when I tell you: I am a certified plant talker.

What does that even mean? You ask.

Simply put, I am that unhinged person who stands in her balcony and has full-blown conversations with plants. But before you call NIMHANS, hear me out Mi Lord!

There is a distinct, magic that happens when you sit down with a perfect temperature, perfectly brewed cup of morning chai, surrounded by green leaves that frankly do not care about your inbox, your deadlines, or the fact that you've been wearing mismatched socks

My balcony plant corner isn't just a collection of pots; it’s my personal sanctuary. Step out there with chai and instantly, it feels like sitting down with old, profoundly wise, and wonderfully non-judgmental friends. They don’t interrupt. They don’t offer unsolicited life advice. They just exist, breathing quietly and offering up a pocket of peace in a loud, chaotic world and occasionally the flower bearing plants will bloom in their full glory caring less about how bright they are

Now that I am sharing secrets, let me tell you another one. I firmly believe that words carry a frequency. Whisper happy, cheerful things to your green companions, maybe even a little Bollywood-style sweet nothing and I swear they grow just a little bit faster out of sheer embarrassment or flattery. It’s an unspoken contract of mutual affection. Sometimes, I even play music for them. Watching their leaves catch the breeze and sway slowly to the rhythm is pure therapy, like my own private Karaoke. Just this week, I had a 10 minute long conversation sharing my deepest feelings about my recent travel and like a faithful friend they just heard me out. Plants are the Hobbes to the Calvin in me

I’ve fully accepted my fate: I am a full-time plant parent, and the primal compulsion to bring home "just one more" new green baby is entirely uncontrollable. Gardening and raising them doesn’t just beautify a space; it completely grounds the soul.

Perhaps this deep-seated affinity for soil and stems isn't accidental. As a kid, I grew up in a house with a sprawling vegetable garden, and that patch of earth was my ultimate solace. Long before the complexities of adulting came knocking, that garden was where I went to make sense of the world. Tending to green growing things taught me a quiet, enduring patience a language of roots and shoots that stays with you long after you've grown up.

So, if our balcony plants could actually talk back over our morning tea, what would they say? I think their greatest advice would be delightfully simple: It is important to breathe.

They would remind us of the natural rhythm of things, that there is a time to grow, a time to bloom, and a time to just sleep and hibernate. We spend so much of our lives trying to be in a perpetual, exhausting state of blossoming, completely forgetting the quiet seasons.

Plants teach us grace in the stillness. Some days, you bloom brilliantly for the whole world to see. But some days, you just stand quietly, soaking up the sun, while deep down, internally, you are photosynthesizing, doing the invisible, quiet work of healing, resting, and gathering strength.

In a world obsessed with constant speed, our little green corners remind us how to slow down, sway with the music, and simply grow at our own pace.

Someday, I dream and hope that I have a small place called home far away from the chaotic city life, which has a huge garden filled with lavenders, tulips, gerberas, orchids, chrysanthemums and all kinds of ferns , potted jade, a huge monstera, a bonsai in the corner with a small water fall .. and a fav corner where I sit with my book and Thor (my Dog) , music in the background. May be that is ALL what happiness looks and feels like 🙂

Thank You for reading ! .. God Bless