It was a Mothers’ Day gift that my older one made for at Daycare – a white pot with his name written in gilt letters, with half a dozen seedlings of what I was told were okra plants.
It made my kitchen window its home – its strategic location next to the kitchen sink making it near impossible for me to miss watering it every day.
Despite the best possible care, the seedlings perished one by one, till only one was left. I never expected it to survive either, and was mentally planning which plant to replace it with. But the plant was more tenacious than I gave it credit for– though it never looked particularly healthy, it clung on, and I gradually came to accept it as a fixture on my window sill.
A few days back, just as I was leaving for work, I thought I saw a flash of yellow. By the time I got back home, the yellow was gone, but two days later, the slowly swelling okra pistil was proof that I hadn’t imagined the encounter.
I am not at all sure if I will ever be able to bring myself to eat the okra- I will most probably just replant the seeds. But one thing I do know – this is the most precious vegetable I have ever called my own.