My envy for the day went towards the gardener, whom I had caught at work earlier in the day. He was working on a tiny patch of grass, right there as you step out the conditioned environs of the office. It was nothing very challenging – he had carved out an area which he was methodically carpeting with new grass. I was drawn-in to the extent of forgetting the embarrassment of conveying my idleness (when you are a worker, you do have to look busy – a cellular conversation, smalltalk with fellow colleagues, a notebook to scratch on, those darned shoe laces that never stay put… anything but an extravagant display of nothingness).
We humans are a grassland-loving species, we like to put our lands to use, to cultivate, and I won’t doubt a wider reach of this instinct. I have grown up seeing lots of Uncles sharing a passion/indulgence for gardening – scoops, rakes, watering cans – that you wonder why they only blame the opposite sex of being sedate in their own artificial worlds. I have heard of army men growing gardens to escape their dull routine abroad – creating a new landscape within the new landscape that they have been posted to. Alas, I presently have nothing but a couple of dying/dead plants in tiny pots on my balcony; they get little sunlight and no human attention. There is no grass I could grow, no garden I could rake of dead leaves in the autumn, or rose bushes that I could prune. Another cry inside to get back home asap.
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