He is punctual. He comes once a week. Any change in his schedule - these are frequent - is notified in advance. In the old but stylish T-shirts of one of his bosses, he cuts a smart figure. He used to come on a motorbike. It has now been claimed by a son. He uses a ladies bicycle. As soon as his work in our house is done, he goes to the common toilet on the ground floor. He usually has his earphones on then. They are attached to his mobile phone. Many a time, they are in place while he is at work in our tiny balcony garden. While leaving our premises, he cheerfully waves out to the watchman. If the maid is in, he invariably talks to her. Proper gupshup. Unfortunately, their timings do not coincide. Once out of the yellow arch, he turns to the right and stops. The wine shop beckons. He quickly picks up a small bottle. It is wrapped in black plastic. He puts it inside his trouser pocket and is off.
The work rarely lasts beyond 15 minutes. He likes to prune the foliage and water the plants. Once in 3 weeks, he digs up the soil at the bottom. Anything more must be explained to him carefully. He hates it when we suggest rather drastic pruning. It sometimes involves chopping off branches which bear buds and then he is distraught but has now learnt to curb himself. On his own, this is all that he does. In the past, he used to take out the soil from the large cement pots and rearrange it. That is now stopped. He does not buy new saplings because he does not go to nurseries. He used to but not anymore. He follows our instructions and on his own, he applies manure once in a year, sprays pesticides about 4 or 6 times in a year and colours the pots in a dark shade of maroon brown before the rains come.
"I should have retired long ago. My children keep asking me to stop the work." He has told us more than once. His manner is that of a long suffering fellow who is doing us a great favour. I once asked him to plant the saplings I had bought in the society garden. He made a face and said, it was not his work. "Society finds it difficult to get a gardener. You only have to plant the saplings and the society will pay you." I told him and then he reluctantly did the job.
He is fond of stretching the achievements of his children and their possessions. I don't need anything now, his manner suggests and then quickly he asks my mother for an advance against his wage for his visit to his village.
I once picked up a nice orange dahlia bush in an exhibition. At home it did not grow properly. It bore just flowers and then it wilted away. After the plant died, the gardener showed me a small plastic cup that had been put under it in the pot. That cup had prevented any growth or root formation.
"This is what big nurseries do nowadays."
"I did not know. It was an expensive plant. Why did you not tell me before?" I was angry.
He became evasive.
"It is your job to attend to these matters. Why did you not take it out from its pot and plant it in one of ours? Or at least, you could have taken out the small cup from its pot." I elaborated in anger.
No reply, no reaction. He was completely unruffled.