Marigolds Mira Singh Indian-United World College of South East Asia, Singapore (2nd Place)
Most of the world had spiralled out of control. Unemployment was soaring, markets had collapsed, and the number of deaths that occurred as each day went by became almost too unbearable to hear. People were losing their homes, jobs, wealth, loved ones. It was chaos. Getting the cure for the virus anytime became a wishful fantasy for most people, and many believed one couldn’t be found in the next decade. So did I. But, I’ve learned from my parents that there is always one thing that is stronger than fear. It’s hope. I like to think of hope as a star. You don’t always see it but it’s there. Even in the bleakest of circumstances, there’s hope. The hard thing is finding it. My name is Aadya and this is the story of how I helped find the cure for the coronavirus. The heat from the sun seeps through the curtains of my window as I lie in bed. A few birds are fussing about an old oak tree that has seen far better days. I get up groggy as my eyes adjust to the light. I let out a sigh as I check the time on my phone. It’s too early in the morning. I should probably get back to sleep but I know it will be foolish to even try. Instead, I stare at the birds making their nest and wish that I too could grow wings and fly far away from this stuffy room. Being confined at home for so long has taken a toll and sometimes I even pretend that the virus never existed. Pretend that millions of people haven’t lost their jobs. Pretend that everything is right in the world. Just then, something catches the corner of my eye. Orange-yellow petals in the bright sunlight. Marigold petals. I remember planting the seeds around a few weeks ago. Before this lockdown started. It’s crazy how much has changed since then. I smile and my spirits are immediately lifted. A sign of hope amongst all the doom of the past few weeks. My drowsiness evaporates and I suddenly feel wide awake. I jump out of bed and tiptoe quietly across the hallway to not wake up my parents. They’re probably asleep and waking them would mean not being allowed to check on my beautiful marigolds. But I keep sneaking out because gardening has become my escape from reality. It keeps me sane. I make sure to slip on my gardening boots and wear a sun hat. As I grab it, a wave of nostalgia hits me. My grandfather had given it to me when I was four years old. He got it from his dad when he was a child. My grandfather was the one who got me interested in gardening. I remember playing board games with him every day and being read stories at night. He was passionate about botany and taught me about different types of flowers. Every week he would
bring a different type of seed from the market and we would plant them together in the garden. I put my hat on, open the door, wincing as it creaks loudly, and make my way to the garden. I trudge on the moist soil and see the first marigold petals shining in the bright sunlight. Beautiful! For a few minutes, I just stand there, frozen in time, and admire how stunning the petals are starting to look when I see something brown sticking out in the bushes surrounding the garden. I squint closer and find it’s actually a basket. An old-fashioned basket like the one Red Riding Hood would have carried. Intrigued, I move closer to inspect what the basket has, and start to untangle it from the bush. Inside I find new shears, a gardening shovel, and a small rake that I’ve been dying to get for the past few months. Excited, I look for something that indicates who has given this to me. I examine both sides and yes, there’s a small note at the bottom of the basket. For growing such lovely flowers, here’s a present for you! I can’t help smiling. The tiny cursive handwriting could only belong to our neighbour- Mr. Sunil Deshpande. Or, as he insisted everyone call him, DP. Ever since DP moved into our next-door house, both of us had grown close. DP reminded me of my grandfather. DP was 78, only a year younger than my grandfather but the physical resemblance stopped there. In spite of that, both had a certain manner of speaking and a kindness in their eyes that were uncannily similar. He shared the same love of gardening as me and my grandfather. And, he bought a new type of seed to plant every month. I loved the routine of meeting him every day. That is until the virus struck the world and stopped all normal life suddenly. I wasn’t allowed to visit him or see him. Especially since older people were more vulnerable to the virus. That didn’t stop me from talking to him though. We called each other often and both of us missed going out and gardening together. I decide to conceal the gifts in the back of the shoe rack so my parents won’t be able to find them. I grab the phone from my pocket and check the time. 7:00 AM. I should probably get going now. I’m pretending to be asleep when my mom hollers for me to come for breakfast. I take a good two minutes before coming, realistically stumbling and rubbing my eyes before sitting on the chair of the dining room. “Slept well?” my dad asks while covering his face with the newspaper and sipping on some tea. “Yeah, I was really tired,” I reply back innocently and add a yawn. “It’s actually good to be tired. What’s on your mind?” “When will this be over? When can I meet my friends again?”
“Till the new cases really come down Aadya. But it’s not really over till they find a vaccine.” “How long will that take?” I ask. “Anywhere from one to two years.” “That long?” “Yeah, it requires a lot of human trials.” “And are those difficult?” “Yes, because they need to find the volunteers. These are people who will take a risk with their health, even with their life because they are injected with the virus to see if they develop resistance.” “Wow, why would anybody volunteer for that?” “Maybe because they’re driven by a higher purpose?” My dad passes me a grilled cheese sandwich and I start eating but my mind is still on the virus and how DP is more vulnerable to it than the rest of us. I start thinking about the gifts DP gave me. When would I use them? Probably after the lockdown, there’s no way I’d be able to use them now. Not if I want to get caught. My parents never understood my love for gardening, the way my grandfather and DP did. And one has gone away forever. The next day I wake up again to my mom’s voice calling me for breakfast. Startled, I jump up and find myself still wearing the clothes I had worn yesterday. Ah, that’s right. I was reading a book called ‘The Botany of Desire: A Plant's-Eye View of the World’ when my eyes had gone heavy and I fell into a deep, soundless sleep. The book had talked about how the four types of human desires are reflected in how we grow and engineer our plants. Sweetness, beauty, intoxication, and control. I’m dying to tell DP about the four desires and discuss my gardening style. Also, thank him for the surprise gift he gave me. I call him up but no one picks up. I call him up again after five minutes and leave a message. Nothing. Half an hour later, I see his name flashing on my phone. “Hello!” I’m greeted with a deep, gravelly voice. A voice that I have never heard before. A voice that is not DP. I’m thrown. Who is this? How come he has DP’s phone? My confusion quickly turns to fear. Why does he have DP’s phone?
“Uh- who are you?” The deep voice answers back. “I’m Bidhan, who’s this?” “I’m Aadya, one of Mr. Deshpande’s family friends. Who are you and what are you doing with his phone?” I ask. Silence. After a couple of seconds, I ask “Hello? Are you still there?” “Yes, yes,” he says. “Aadya, I am sorry to tell you that Mr.Deshpande has caught the coronavirus. He is quite seriously ill and he’s in the hospital. I am a friend of his and I’m here, waiting outside the ICU.” His words almost knock me off my feet. My eyes well up and I need to sit down. I tell myself he will recover but deep down, I know I will never see him again. My parents are equally shocked, they call up Mr. Bidhan. Things are as grim as can be. DP is already on a ventilator. I start crying. I’m unable to sleep on my own, so I spend the night in my parent’s bedroom, holding their hands. The next morning, we are all at breakfast. My mom is drinking tea. My dad is reading his newspaper. Something they do everything single morning. I wake up. I stare straight ahead. My parents keep trying to make conversation but I can’t talk. Even about DP. I just hate that I’m so helpless. My dad goes back to his newspaper and I notice from the corner of my eye, bold, red letters on the back. VOLUNTEER FOR VACCINE TRIALS AND SAVE LIVES It feels like someone has slapped me in the face. Like the cosmos is giving me a signal. There was my answer. Staring me straight in the face. I knew what I had to do. And before I can change my mind, I look firmly at my parents, clear my throat, and say “I want to volunteer for the vaccine trials.” “What?” my father asks. I can feel he is taken aback by the seriousness of my tone. “You don’t mean that right?” my mom adds, a worried expression on her face. I grit my teeth and look at them in the eye. “No, I’m not. This is what I want to do, okay? I might even help find a cure for this disease.” Tears well up in my eyes and I storm out, go to my room, and slam the door.
Eat. Argue. Sleep. Repeat. That becomes the routine. Hours turn into days. My parents try to make a balanced argument. They lay out the pros and cons. But I can see their heart is not in it. The cons always win. But strangely, my fervour for the idea has not gone away. I’m surprised by my own determination. It’s fuelled by my fear of losing DP. And then that fear comes true. My dad is the one who breaks the news. He comes into my room, looks at me with sorrowful eyes, and says “I’m so sorry, sweetheart!”. It did not need more explaining than that. For days, I had known that this moment would come but when it did, I felt like a giant boulder had fallen on my chest. DP was no more. The only things I had left of him were the gifts he had secretly hidden for me in my garden. And all those beautiful memories that we had created together- of us walking in the garden, and tending after our plants while discussing everything under the sun. While I was sinking in grief, my parents’ sorrow seemed to be accompanied by another emotion. They seemed relieved. Relieved that my insistence on volunteering for the vaccine trials will finally end. The urge to “be a martyr” will fizzle out and some sense of self-preservation will return. But they were wrong. His death had in fact strengthened my determination. My impulsive wish was slowly transforming into a sincere resolve. I wanted to help out people like DP, millions of older people who were vulnerable and at serious risk of losing their lives. I could feel it in my bones- this was my true calling. Or, as my father had said, my higher purpose in life. My mind was made up. I was going to make a run for it tonight. The alarm begins to ring under my pillow. I check the time. It’s 3 AM. Today was the day. Even if I died, I didn’t care. At least I would die knowing that I had tried my best to save lives. I grab a rucksack with everything I need inside. A stash of money (my pocket money), my phone, a pair of clothes, some food, and a bottle of water. Last night, I had contacted the vaccine trial company and shared my keenness to volunteer for the cause. They were hesitant initially, but after sharing evidence of my eligibility, they had agreed to take me in. The plan was to meet up at the mall entrance, from where the company vehicle would transport me to the trial centre, located on the outskirts of the city. I double-check my essentials for the journey and leave a note for my parents in the living room. I quietly make my way to the main door of my house. I’m confident that nothing can go wrong. After all, I’m so much used to sneaking out into the garden at odd hours, without my parents ever having a whiff of it. My garden boots are always out, next to the door but my favourite sneakers are buried way into the shoe rack. Figures. After all, I haven’t worn them for so many weeks in the lockdown. But the shoelaces are entangled with those of five other shoes at the back. I tug hard. A tsunami of shoes crashes on the ground. I put my sneakers on.
“Aadya” My father is standing next to me. He looks stern. And sad. I know he will never let me go. My emotional answers will never measure up to his practical questions. But I decide to take him on. I realise that I can’t turn back now. I have to convince him no matter what. Slowly, I turn around, bracing myself for the most unpleasant conversation. When suddenly he says, “You can go.” I’m in disbelief. “Really? Are you ok for me to volunteer?” He lets out a sigh. “Believe me, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done and I’ll probably regret it! But, if I don’t let you go now, I know that you will hate me for the rest of your life. I should have probably listened to your earlier, but I was selfish. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to protect our family. But I see your higher purpose. And I can’t stand in the way. So go, before I change my mind.” I stand there for a few seconds, dumbstruck. What just happened? I start to cry. My father starts to cry as well. We hug each other. Tightly. I leave. Now you can probably guess what happens next. After all, I wouldn’t be writing this story otherwise. Yes, the cure was found. No, I played no role in it. Don’t get me wrong, I went for the trials. They signed me up. I got the injections. And then nothing happened. I didn’t get sick. Even a little bit. Another volunteer told me we were the placebo group. To this day, I don’t know. But you know what, I became a bit of a hero. My parents couldn’t stop talking about my ‘courage’ and my ‘higher purpose’. And my friends. And my teachers. I made it to the national news. Even did a few interviews, where I was very stiff. And then everyone moved on. Life’s better now. Schools and offices are running again. Normal life never seemed so good. But one year later, it all seems a bit distant. I’m busy preparing for Medical School now, so let’s just say I have other problems in life. But one thing hasn’t changed. My love of gardening. I’m off every morning with my basket. I’m trying to grow plants according to all the four desires. Intoxication is still a bit of an issue, but otherwise, it’s going well. My parents complain I grow only one kind of flower. They keep telling me- next season, try something other than marigolds. Maybe next year, I’ll give tulips a try.
Or, maybe not. *****