His gnarled fingers looked like bent, dried sticks, but the moment they touched the soil they came alive. They loosened the earth around the rose bushes with such a gentle touch that it was almost a caress. Every single bush, plant, tree under his care flourished.

Bhairavan was my grandmother’s gardener in our home in Coonoor. He would tend the garden, and the vegetable patch at the back of the house. Tomatoes, cabbage and carrots, tangy radishes and cauliflowers, all came into the house dew-fresh. There was a tomato plant in a corner and he would shake the plant and give us the fruits. Cut in two, and sprinkled with sugar, it was delicious.

Gardeners like him belonged to another era. What stories he could have told of gardening for the memsahibs, and of garden parties on the lawn. Bhairavan lived in a small two-roomed house in our compound with his family.

His gardening techniques were traditional and simple. The rose bushes were covered with white, red and yellow roses. With a surgeon’s skill he would graft the bushes, delicately inserting a small portion of the stem into a slit in the receiving bush and tie it up tight with thread and lo and behold! After a few weeks one would have a different colour flower sprouting on the mother bush. My mother with her gift of the green thumb learnt the art from him and practised it with success.

He seemed ageless. Sometimes a family member would gently hint that maybe it was time to employ a younger gardener. But my grandmother took no notice. Her interest in the garden lay in the jasmines she used for the puja room and Bhairavan always ensured a good supply of them. I do not remember who died first, my grandmother or Bhairavan, but I have no doubt that he would make a lovely celestial garden for grandmother!