Jasmine sambuc, a long road to the heart
I have one room centenarian - this is Jasmine Sambuc. This is my mother’s flower, I don’t even know where she got it from her ... When I definitely got it, I can’t say either. In my youth, I was not interested in indoor flowers. Yes, and people did not have a flower boom in Soviet times, there were enough fingers in their hands to list those that most had on the windowsills. Geraniums of 2-3 species (now we know that it is pelargonium), ficus (old rubber-bearing), a couple of cacti, agave (now more called aloe), and Chinese rosan (now trendy hibiscus). Then the majority had one of its only varieties of Hamburg (as I recently determined). And then, mom just rejoiced from time to time appearing terry scarlet balls. Well, especially advanced flower growers of that time somewhere got Kalanchoe degrioma, tradescantia and Vanka-wet (unforgettable and glorified in the songs of the windows, aka balsam), the bride and groom (blue and white campanulu). Flower shops, as a rule, did not have a wide assortment. And the people, preferring to save, changed processes, brought cuttings from work, grew citrus fruits from seeds.
And this incomprehensible plant always irritated me for some reason. The branches are long, thin, the leaves are sparse, some wrinkled, often dried, at the base of the branches a spider line. In addition, it always clung to tulle curtains. And sometimes I purposely, sharply jerked them and twisted leaves flew to the floor. Mom shook her head, sighed, carried the hated freak into the bath, lathered with soap and soap, then put it in the shower ...
“Oh, why all this effort! - I was annoyed, - it's time to throw him out! The window sill is narrow, the flower only interferes! ”
“You don’t understand,” my mother defended her favorite, “this is a rare plant and blooms very well.”
I shrugged: “Blooms ?!” I never saw the flowering of this angular driftwood. Soon I got married and left home. There are children, new worries and new things. I did not start flowers, there was no time to mess with them, and there was no desire. Although she often visited her mother, she didn’t even look at the windowsills.
Years passed. Mom is gone. The brother living with her was going on a long business trip. I came to say goodbye.
"Sister, take this flower for yourself, otherwise it will die," - the brother brought me ... mother's jasmine. The flower grew, bright green leaves cheerfully sticking out in all directions.
“You would take it to work,” I said, not at all happy with his offer.
“Yes, I distributed almost all the flowers, I know that you have no time to bother with them,” he looked sadly at me, “but you know ... this is ... mother’s flower, darling.” I can’t ... Well, I would have to save. If I could, I would take it with me. ”
I sighed heavily, and without much ceremony, thumped a flower pot in a bag, and drove home. My new family - I, my husband and two children then lived in a communal apartment, on the second floor, near the Universitet metro station. There were two windows in the corner room, one overlooking the avenue, and the other into the courtyard. I placed a flower on a sunny window overlooking the avenue. This area is very green, around the house there is a small garden with linden, lilac and bird cherry. And the window to the courtyard was often opened in the summer, and the flower would interfere with this. It was the first indoor plant in my adult life. But I was a negligent host (it’s impossible to call me a flower grower then). I forgot to water, sometimes the remnants of the sleeping tea fell over to the unfortunate, sometimes coffee. Seeing how detrimental my “departure” was reflecting on him, she appealed to her own conscience. Remembering the words of his brother: “After all, this is my mother’s flower!” Reproaching herself for her negligence and non-sensitivity, she quickly wiped the leaves and watered with fresh water. But then, one day, I went to the country with the children for the whole summer. Not that she threw the flower, she simply relied on her husband.
© Biswarup Ganguly
"Oh, it’ll pour, somehow." The husband approached this issue seriously, even though the scientist poured water into a jar, set it on a raised platform and threw a wet flagellum from a can to a flower.
Then, with a calm mind, he left for the time of our absence to his parents.
I returned home in the middle of summer: to wash and for groceries. The first thing that caught my eye was the red skeleton of jasmine, without a single leaf!
"Died, after all!" - sadly, but with some relief I stated. I felt the twigs, stroked the dry bark of the stem with my finger and took it out of the pot and threw it into that very open window overlooking the garden.
At the end of August, we returned to Moscow. While my husband was carrying things from the car to the second floor, I stood at the entrance with a one and a half year old daughter in my arms, and looked at the flowerbed in our front garden. Well done our pensioners, such a flower garden broke! So the husband opened our window - from the slope, something fell right onto the flower garden. I followed the flight and found that it was a small pile of white bread that had apparently fallen from somewhere above, there some old woman always fed pigeons on her windowsill. Apparently this is from her. But what's next to bread? I put my daughter in a stroller and came closer. So it is - mother's jasmine, branches and roots stick out plaintively from the lush greenery of the flowerbed. My heart sank!
© Biswarup Ganguly
“Or is he still alive ?!” - Flashed through my head. In any case, I will try to do something for him! After all, this is mother's jasmine.
I bought fresh land and transplanted the poor fellow in a new pot, cut off all the dry branches. The plant moved to another window, because the ruthless sun can burn it! How I had not noticed this before. It seemed to me that the veil fell from my eyes and, most importantly, I’m not afraid of pathos words - my heart snapped open.
Soon, chlorophytum appeared on the windowsill, and then, Sambucu also made up nephrolepis.
Beauty, the window began to sparkle with new colors! It would be necessary to look into the flower shop, maybe something new appeared there? I intensively looked after jasmine, loosened and poured softened water. Stubbornly there were no leaves, but for some reason I firmly knew that he was alive. Once, unable to resist, she scratched a dry trunk with a fingernail - not clearly, then deeper. Is alive. Alive! Alive !!! The leaves appeared a month later. And three years later, as it was, on a frosty January day, when my children and I returned from a walk, we were struck by the unusual delicate and marvelous aroma that stood in the room.
Sambuk shot the only bud that I didn’t notice, and now I bloomed with might and main a large (for this plant) snow-white flower. Children stretched their noses to the flower, and closed their eyes from bliss. If I say that the calendar was January 25th, Tatyana’s day, and that was exactly what my mother was called, they won’t believe me. Well, as they say, believe it or not ...
We don’t live in that communal apartment, and for a long time I have an extensive collection of flowers. I part with something easily, it’s hard to experience some kind of loss ... But Sambuk is still with me. It is always different, it blooms profusely, it will discard the leaves. But I never managed to propagate it with cuttings, neither to me, nor to those to whom I gave sprouts. This is one of my favorite plants, with which I will never part with my children, because this is my mother’s flower.