The gardener retired, happy and satisfied with his work. But just as he made his exit, the gates swung open and there burst forth a team of children, wild with joy
WITH the first signs of the receding tide of winter, the earth woke up with a yawn. The birds twittered, flapping their wings as if to shake off the frost. They had every cause to be happy. The sun was kind above, the air was warm around and the blue open spaces were there for them to navigate.
On the brown soil appeared a fresh green blade of grass which swayed its head this way and that, as if intoxicated, and said, “Look at me, for I am Prince Charming.”
“Well, well, well,” sneered a mustered stalk with kingly grace, conscious of its own budding glory. After all, its coronation was only days away.
The old gardener came out. He smiled his most tender smile while caressing a dew-drenched mulberry twig. Such sure signs of life! He felt young again. “It is time to get back to work,” he said to himself. He was tall, lean and gaunt. The winds and weather of the past 70 years or so had creased his face. But they could not bend his back or dim the lustre of his eyes.
He took the gardening tools in his long, bony hands and started to work. And what a labour it was! Besides the layers and layers of fallen leaves and garden waste, the land seemed stubborn after having been long out of use.
The gardener cleared and levelled the ground. He sowed seeds and planted saplings in carefully chalked beds. He brought water in pitchers from a nearby stream. But the soil needed more, so he dug canals. Streaming, sparkling water rushed in the channels like blood running smoothly in veins. The birds flapped their wings. At first shy, they then flew closer and chirped. The old man smiled in return. He knew he was not alone.
Soon, plants and bushes hoisted their flowers in triumph. Red, red roses glowed like candle flames at night. White chambeli blossoms glistened like stars in the sky. It was then that a host of butterflies passed by. So lovely and delicate; carrying a whole fiesta of colours — red, yellow, orange, peach, purple, turquoise, emerald green and gold. “Home at last,” they cried out in sheer delight.
The gardener retired, happy and satisfied. He could rest for days now. Just when he made his exit, the gates swung open and there burst forth a team of children, singing and dancing, wild with joy. And why not? The land was theirs; so were the shyly whisking winds and the blue, blue sky.
Their noise scared the birds off their perch. The children shrieked and shouted as they bounced and bumped. They trampled the blades of grass and there lay the mustard flower crumpled on the turf. Some ran races, others swung on the branches. Yet others loosened the stones while jumping down from the mounds. And lo, the water courses were blocked! The plants thirsted for water for the heat was increasing now. Still, the children played and laughed. One day, they brought their nets and ran after the butterflies. Hunted down, the poor things fluttered away, terrified. The little captors shut them up in air-tight jars. That way, they wanted to own them.
“No...!” screeched the wind. “Free the butterflies. They’ll die.” But it screeched in vain, for die they did the very next morning. The children were sad. But then they pressed and pasted the dead wings in their scrapbooks and were happy again.
The sun grew hot and red. Dismayed, the winds changed their course. Bereft, the garden lost its form and colour. Good that the gardener did not return from his rest. He would have died to see his love’s labour lost. And the children? Well, they left for Murree and Patriata to spend their summer vacation!
The gardener retired, happy and satisfied with his work. But just as he made his exit, the gates swung open and there burst forth a team of children, wild with joy 
