Every morning, I awaken and saunter into my garden. Winter makes sure I feel his presence, and my arms go around me in response. The Harsingar tree is my favourite. All day and all night, there's a perpetual whiff of its fragrant white and orange flowers, that drop silently from the branches like snowflakes from the sky.
The garden dances each day. Seedlings making their slow progress skywards, flowers showing off their best party frocks, and trees singing in the cool breeze. And when the sun falls, they all bask - lazy and golden.
I await to see my Nasturtiums and Pansies. Their seeds were planted two weeks ago. There's a 'natural' suspense to it. The tomatoes in the back garden seem to be doing fine, while the melons have simply sprouted from the seeds in our homemade manure. This isn't even their season, yet they want to survive and shine.
I sit and watch the gossiping Babblers, hunting for tasty snacks in the grass; the occasional Hoopoe or Red-vented Bulbul; the flippity Sunbirds. They love the garden, I think even more than I do. It is their home, their feeding ground, their social hangout. A sip of water here, a peck at a wriggling worm there, and they're happy.
I watch them for myself. Because what it produces inside me is almost meditative. What a start to a day.