I grew up in Mumbai, India, in one of its very prominent suburbs called Parle. Near our house was the Parle Biscuit Factory that added a sweet fragrance in the air every now and then. Most of the dwellers in the apartment building were the perfect example of the growing middleclass population in Mumbai. We had a great playground in the building with a large palm tree, two mango trees, a chicku tree (Sapota) and then the branches of the gardenia just crossed into our building walls from the neighbourhood.
The gardenia was a mystery. It grew in the sewer running between the two walls of the neighbourhood, but it still grew the most amazing fragrant white glossy flowers. They grew in large numbers on the large bush. The old lady living in a hut next to the plant (more than a shack) seemed to have taken the sole ownership of the it. She would not let anyone pluck flowers or touch the branches without her clear permit. At times my maid would stretch his arms to get me the flowers, sometimes I walked up to the old lady with a sweet smile to request one. She was mean, but she was kind at the same time. I often took the flowers for my teachers, who loved them, but didn’t care for them as much as I did. I still took, them, to show my respect. I was a good child, don’t you think? I moved out of this apartment building after 14 years of living there, but I remember every year, there were always a bounty of flowers on this plant and they seem to have increased in fragrance every year.
This is the sole reason I grow gardenia’s in my New York apartment, it brings back those wonderful memories, of the old lady, of my childhood. Some great memories they were!
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