The Money Plant

"It can't be true, it's not true," Meera heard herself saying. But, the noise around them grew louder. "He is guilty. Hang him to death," the violent mob screamed. Meera was shaking my shoulders enquiringly, asking dozens of questions. But, I could hear only the crowd and lost her voice to the chaos, or did I choose not to listen?

Meera and I were an average couple who lived in the suburbs of Mumbai city. We were in our late forties, living together for fourteen years in a rented apartment in a high-rise tower in a plush society. She worked as a marketing executive at a leading advertising company, and I was a free-lance writer, working from home. While she earned a decent pay package every month, my income was inconsistent.

I had converted a small corner of the apartment into my secluded nest with only a futon and writing desk as my companions for the never-ending days that stretched motionlessly. That afternoon, I laid on my back, staring at the white ceiling fan rotating ceaselessly. My life is similar to the fan, moving in circles, going nowhere.

My new novel that was online for a while now wasn't getting the desired response. Strangely, Meera's prediction turned out to be true when she critically passed my book as monotonous and unrealistic. According to her, my writings were not ambitious enough, and my characters were too forgiving. "This is bull shit, Krishna. No one could relate to such sacrificial tendencies. Your characters never demand; they are too submissive. They lack the motivation to acquire things. In my opinion, that's too one-dimensional," she had commented callously after reading my first draft of the work. I dismissed her views as coming from someone who measured her success to the material gains. For me, the character's submissiveness resonated with their self-worth undeterred by the external conditions, and their forgiving nature reflected mindfulness and acceptance.

I shifted my position sideways to look outside the balcony. The Gulmohar tree had bloomed very well this year, with red flowers. I liked this tree that bloomed once a year in summer. I could also hear a cuckoo singing from a distance, again a phenomenon that happened once a year in summer. Where do they disappear to in other seasons? I wondered. 

For me, the day was passing exceptionally slow as usual. I turned around and closed my eyes with my hands over my forehead.

"Krishna, you lack the spark in your life. You are a home plant that does nothing but lays around in the house without a meaningful impact on the outside world. You are wasting your energy in writing mindless fiction that nobody understands." I could see Meera's disgusted face from today morning's conversation. She was standing outside the bathroom, with wet hairs and a towel around her torso, frowning at me. I did watch her from head to toe and couldn't miss her curvy body and delicious lips that were still her assets. She was beautiful for her age, and I couldn't help staring at her fully enlarged bosom, now hidden under the towel. "You are a sick money plant in the pot. Smelly and diseased." She screamed, flaring her nostrils with tears of rage rolling down her cheeks. I assumed that she would drop her towel and stand naked in front of me in the act of screaming and name-calling. But that didn't happen to my disappointment. Meera had left the apartment in a huff, leaving me alone once again to pass the endless day lying in my corner mattress looking at the ceiling fan.

Why does she think that I am a good-for-nothing house money plant? And what makes her feel that a money plant doesn't make any impact? It has roots, leaves, and the ability to stay alive even if ignored for days by its master. It is a resilient plant that expects nothing in return. It is just there, forgotten and lost from the external world. But doesn't that make it stronger? Who lives in this way with zero expectations from others, unconditionally, lying motionlessly in a corner, and still breathing? Such a demeanor requires exceptional inner strength and grit.

I opened my eyes to look at the lifeless money plant lying still in the other corner of the apartment. I got up to go the bathroom to get a bucket of water to spray the money plant. The unconditional plant received water with gratitude and looked refreshed after the shower. I kept the bucket near the money plant and went back to my mattress.

What if I want to be a money plant my whole life? What if I want to sit around motionlessly and watch the world pass? What if Meera could understand this point of view and accept me as I am?"

I felt Meera was unreasonable for a long time now. "Krishna, you would never listen to me. Why are you so difficult? Why don't you have any expectations or conditions from me? I am bored of your silent and giving nature. It stifles me to stare into your lifeless eyes, that doesn't expect anything from me," she had once told me on a cold winter night after she returned from a new year's party hosted by her manager at his house. She was looking stunning in her tight red dress that made no effort to hide her curvy body. She was hit upon by men every day, of which she was fully aware of and secretly pleased. I appreciated her beauty and would long to hold her in my arms. But I didn't display any of my desires openly to anyone. "You are a lifeless money plant with no desires." She stated indifferently. 

I stopped myself from daydreaming with this thought and got up to put on the lights as it got darker outside. As soon as the lights were on in the living room, the money plant's shadow fell on the floor. It was amusing to see various shapes the leaves made from the lights overhead. The shadows gave another dimension to the plant, which looked more elegant and royal with shades of black and grey on the floor. The simple plant looked different in the changed lighting. Is this how I will look if Meera changed her perception of me? Will she observe my different shades if she made an effort and threw other lights on me? Will she see all my dimensions and love me for it? 

I had no answers to these questions as I walked towards my corner to wait for her to return. The money plant in me was again lying still, waiting for nothing.

I heard a noise when I woke up. I could see Meera's agitated face over me, "Krishna, Krishna, wake up." I opened my eyes with great effort to find myself in strange surroundings with a dizzy spinning head. The floor was cold, and there was a pungent stench of urine in the air. My eyes tried to adjust to the darkness and the noise. "Guilty. That bastard is guilty. Hang him to death." I heard the mob screaming. Slowly, as my senses returned, I got a grip on reality and realized that I was locked in jail.

I turned to face Meera again.

Last evening when Sheetal, our house help, walked in as she did every day, I remember her offering me cold water in a glass. While drinking it, I thought about the money plant that I had watered some time back. The taste of cold water was refreshing, and I glowed as the money plant did. I tried hard to remember what happened next but couldn't at all. I could faintly remember Sheetal's voice, and now Meera is bending over me, trying to wake me up.

Meera was anxiously looking at me, searching for answers. Sheetal accused me of rape and molestation. The noise outside was growing incessantly with each passing moment. A mob from Sheetal's neighborhood had gathered and was demanding immediate justice for her. "Krishna is guilty." I heard loud slogans against me.

I looked at Meera. My bloodshot eyes had a profound question, "Do you trust me?" I asked. She nodded and took my hand in hers and said, "I do, but the noise is growing. They say that you are guilty. How can I ignore the noise? Please tell me what the truth is? I love you and want to trust you. "

Her words fell on my ears like hot oil, burning deep into my skin, roasting my brains to ashes. Her body exuded repulsion that penetrated my soul deeply, punching into the blisters that had gathered from years of contempt.

I sighed, wearily took her in my arms, and said, "Don't worry, my love. If you had loved and trusted me, you would have listened to the whispers in your heart that my trust was trying to tell you and not to the screaming world. And yes, now, I am guilty."

I lost to Meera's prejudice and her point of view about me. She always saw me as an incompetent, lazy man who was no less than the house money plant, lying and waiting for nothing in a corner.

But, Meera, I had my shades too. I don't remember you throwing different lights on me to watch the spectrum. I, too, had the breadth and depth that you never explored. You never watched my personality dance in a compassionate, understanding light. I was always labeled as a failure and stocked away as a sick lifeless plant. 

How could I ever harm Sheetal? I could never do it. You know me, Meera. Justice will one day prove my innocence, but you pronounced me guilty even before it is declared. You didn't trust me and listened to the world instead.

You treated the money plant similarly. The plant looked at you dearly every day, hoping to catch your attention and get some affection. But you never glanced at it and ignored it forever. Now, when the money plant is in trouble, you won't listen to its plea. You have announced its fate all too early. 

I never thought I would agree that I am a lazy money plant, lying and waiting for nothing. I am finally giving up my fight for survival and truth to accept your perspective with a burnt heart. I am conceding to your point of view and surrendering to have peace after this clash of sensibilities that has destroyed me forever. 

However, now this money plant will bloom on its own without seeking validation from anyone. It will reach far and wide one day to climb the window and hug the Gulmohar outside. I concede; I am that stubborn house money plant that once laid and did nothing.

**