At the Kew Gardens

At the Kew Gardens

My friend, he is a botanist.
Not just any ordinary botanist,
but one who knows every genus, every hybrid,
just as a devout pastor would know his bible.

At the Kew Gardens, that spring day,
the weather was scantily sunny, mostly drizzly;
the kind that makes an English meteorologist
feel secure and adequate.

Enchanted by the magic of flowers,
one heard, "How beautiful!" in different languages.
The air was thick with appreciation
that needed no translation.

I came to a halt, arrested by a large, striking
bed of flowers. "Sweet Williams," I said.
His eyes lit up. "Dianthus barbatus,
family Caryophyllaceae," he said with gravity.
Seeing me smile, "F1 hybrids," he added,
as an after thought.

In the extensive green house,
while I soaked in the delirious colours,
textures and shapes of the exotic plants,
he launched into his rapid-fire 'botanicalese'.
"Tillandsia cyanea, Aechmea fulgens,
Strelitzia reginae....."

I dragged him out.
When we finally came to rest on a garden bench
and shared wrapped sandwiches and tepid tea,
I entreated him, "Shall we, just this once,
call grass, a grass, and a flower, a flower?"
He smiled broadly and nodded.
The botanist in him took a pause.

On our way out, I bought him a gift in the Orangery -
a set of six prints painted by Forster.
In distinct, hand written letters below the flowers
were etched their botanical names.
He thanked me effusively.

All the way back to the city,
he looked at the exquisite prints with adoration
and almost apologetically, but earnestly, explained
the meaning of the roots
of the botanical names
of those flowers.

My friend, always a botanist.

~ Krishna ~
2 August 2001

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