My Bougainvillea Sprouts Again

It was a crabby day. My anger was unrelenting. It was stuffed in my throat and I wasn’t letting it find a vent.

Held captive by my resolve to not give it a free rein, it was clamouring for release. ‘You don’t let me speak. You have muted my voice. This isn’t fair. Give me an outlet,’ it ranted with despair.

Unshaken by its silent tantrums, I firmly said to my stifled rage, like a strict parent to her child, ‘You will remain inside.’

My anger knocked on my chest again and called out, ‘Unshackle me, I am your truth. Don’t pretend I don’t exist.’

I felt an intense rap against my rib cage, and I laughed through the pain. ‘Yes, I know you exist. But I don’t want to deal with you. You are my captive now. Letting you free can wreak havoc. Stay quiet in your lair and let me be too.’

Sparing scant respect for the throb in my veins, I took a deep breath and began to prune the dead branches of the bougainvillea outside my window for a brief diversion. The dry leaves that were hanging listlessly indicated that there was no future for the plant. It seemed as if the rage of summer had decided to vanquish it. But I couldn’t let it die.

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I clipped the branches, one by one, flinching at the rasp of the thorns on my skin, till the plant was fully bare. I watered the tonsured plant copiously and heard the wind whisper, ‘Water it regularly and leave it to nature. Green shoots will soon emerge, there will be flowers galore.”

I smiled at the promise of the universe, shut the window and returned inside.

While passing by the mirror I stopped, stared in it and said to my other self.

‘Turn the sprinklers on for the better. There are other things you can nurture than these pesky passions of wrath.’

I sipped a glass of chilled water and infused some fluid calm.

A week later, I woke up to a wholesome sight. My bougainvillea had sprung up lavishly. Little spurts of green were greeting me with fresh morning cheer. Soon, it will erupt with pink all over. The magic of revival overwhelmed me.

I gently reflected on the day of rage and scribbled in my scrap book –

When the summer sizzles and scorches the earth,

When the leaves wither and flowers die,

Prune the dead branches.

Water the living roots.

The spring inside will soon manifest.