One of the houses up the street was vacated a few months ago. I happen to pass it daily on my morning walk — my brisk-paced endeavour, that is, to ensure my figure still elicits the adjective ‘svelte’ from those who know me — and those who don’t are welcome to use it as well. (I like to kid myself from time to time!)
Anyhow, the owners of this house have bought another house, up in the rarefied atmosphere of the hills. They haven’t made a ‘clean getaway’, however. Bits and pieces of themselves have been left behind mainly in the form of plants and flower pots. Most of these have withered and died from neglect. I found one, though, still barely green, in what was once an elegant long-necked glass jar. The jar had evidently parted company with elegance months ago, too. It lay on its side, cracked but somehow — perhaps from the recent rains, a hollow in the bottom had allowed some water to collect and this was what was keeping the plant alive. My friend Barney who saw it the day after I’d rescued and taken it home, opined that it was a ‘money plant’.
A money plant?
“Yes, if it takes to you and grows it attracts money,” said Barney, adding, “You’re coming into some luck, I feel Kev.” That’ll be the day, I think to myself privately. Luck and I have been travelling different coordinates since day one. I have somehow contrived to be in the right place at the wrong time. Especially with money.
A few years after finishing up work as a humble teacher and leaving Darjeeling, the pay scales of teachers was revised (upward, of course) and pretty soon a lot of the teaching staff were rocking up to work in their own cars — something I couldn’t imagine when I was there. Cut and paste the same story with my experience working in Dubai.
And now, Lady Luck having eluded me twice, I’d like to think I am moderately happily retired, spending my meagre savings — people laugh and look doubtful when I tell them I earn no more a month now than these four columns bring in, that all my other writing, at least for the moment, as I said to a friend recently, ensures that I pay the bills because it isn’t doing any paying!
Still, I am happy doing what I love best and sometimes as I tell myself philosophically there isn’t a price one can put on that. No bosses, no deadlines, no stress.
And now, of course, Barney prophesies that the future is going to be accompanied by the rich clinking of coins and the rustle of notes. I’ll believe that when I see it. What has happened, however, is that the destitute ‘money plant’ has taken a liking to my ministrations. It’s been given a new home, fresh soil, a new pot and is loving all this very much, thank you. I’ve discovered it is a creeper of sorts, not rampant, but one that likes to leave a nice green trail. Its leaves, once a yellowy, sickly green, are now thick and shiny and it appears to be trying to make up for lost time by putting out a new leaf nearly every day — at least that is what it looks like.
“I am not superstitious, Barney,” I told him back then and he responded, “Nor am I, but look, it’s already paid you back for your kindness. It’s given you something to write about, and you’re going to get paid for this column. If it can do that, what’s the harm in believing it can possibly do more? We are still light-years away from understanding the nature of ourselves, how far must we be from understanding the nature of plants, eh? It has nothing to do with superstition, Kev.”
We leave it at that, but I can’t help giving my lithe green creeping beauty an appreciative glance before arriving at this full stop.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
