In my childhood, Grandpa’s Garden was paradise: a charming thatched mansion nestled in a lush expanse of flowers, greenery, and fruit trees.
Its brick courtyard, framed by flowing streams, set the stage for magical summer nights. One iron bed for my grandmother and the children; a spring bed for Grandpa. When he traveled, that bed was mine—and at eight, I became the “man of the house.”

As lights dimmed, the garden’s symphony unfolded. Buried under his soft blanket, I inhaled the scent of medicinal herbs, my senses alive in the silence—no TVs, no phones. The rhythm of water started it, crickets added delight, a frog’s bold solo rose, jackals howled in harmony, and wind-swept leaves clapped like waves. It was nature’s eternal song, etching harmony into my soul.