Growing Together

I unfurled my first leaf on Tuesday. I remember because Ayesha was wearing her school uniform with the blue badge, and she only wore it on school days. That was three years ago.

My pot sits on the windowsill of her room, the one with colorful paintings taped to the walls and a desk where she studies for her exams. From here, I've watched Ayesha grow from a forgetful nine-year-old into a girl who sometimes remembers to water me before rushing off to school.

When she first brought me home, I was just a small pothos cutting in a glass jar of water. "You're impossible to kill," her mother told her, which I found mildly offensive but ultimately accurate. "Perfect for a first-time plant caretaker."

Publisher: Hamdard Naunehaal Pakistan (May 2025 Issue)

Ayesha talks to me more than she realizes. I've heard her practice spelling words, rehearse Urdu poems, and mumble mathematics problems while doing homework. Sometimes she sits next to my pot when she's sad, her quiet sniffles adding an unexpected saltiness to my soil that I've grown to anticipate during difficult school weeks.

The first year was challenging. Ayesha would forget about me for days, then suddenly remember and pour too much water into my pot. Some days she'd forget to open the curtains, and I'd strain toward the sliver of light peeking through the edges.

"We're both just trying to grow, aren't we?" she'd murmur while poking my soil with her finger, checking for dampness in a ritual that became her way of taking a break from studying.

In my second year, Ayesha joined the school gardening club. I knew it was serious when she came home with a small notebook filled with plant care tips. She studied my leaves carefully and moved my pot two inches to the left for better sunlight.

"Plants are like people," her teacher had told the class. "They show you what they need if you pay attention."

I wanted to produce a spectacular new leaf right then to show my approval, but photosynthesis has its limitations. Instead, I unfurled a fresh tendril that curled slightly in the direction of her notebook.

Ayesha became more attentive after that. She brought home seeds from the gardening club and planted them in small pots that lined the windowsill beside me. Sometimes she'd sit cross-legged on the floor, reading aloud from her science textbook as if I could understand photosynthesis better if she explained it. I grew three new leaves that spring.

But summer holidays brought change. Ayesha went to visit her grandparents in the village for a month. Her mother watered me, but it wasn't the same without Ayesha's cheerful chatter. When she returned, she was taller and full of stories.

"I helped Dadi with her vegetable garden," she told me, fingers tracing my vines that had begun to trail down the wall. "She says plants are Allah's reminder that patience always brings rewards."

I wanted to explain that I understood waiting, that adaptation was my specialty. But all I could do was exist, my leaves turned toward the light, my roots making do with what I had.

The day Ayesha started sixth grade, she repotted me. Her movements were careful and precise as she gently untangled my roots and placed me in fresh soil—a larger home with room to grow in new directions. I felt her fingers trembling with excitement.

"There," she whispered when she finished. "Now we both have room to grow bigger."

Autumn brought a new routine. Ayesha started watering me every Friday after coming home from school without fail. She'd open her homework planner beside my pot, organizing her weekend while sipping her favorite mango juice. Sometimes she'd touch one of my leaves absently while thinking, as if we were having a conversation.

Ayesha doesn't know that I've been growing aerial roots that reach toward her when she sits nearby. She doesn't realize that the way I've twisted toward the light mimics how she now moves through her room—with purpose, with determination.

Winter came, and Ayesha brought home another plant. A small rose bush, high-maintenance and temperamental. I watched her research its care, testing the soil with her fingers, carefully trimming its stems.

"My first plant taught me responsibility," she told her mother, nodding toward me. "Now I think I'm ready for something more challenging."

I don't mind sharing the windowsill. From my perspective, Ayesha has room enough in her heart for many things to flourish now. Including herself.

Today, she wore her school uniform with the blue badge, now with a gardening club pin attached. She touched one of my vines and smiled.

"Look how far we've both come," she said. "You were my first friend when we moved to this city."

If I could, I would tell her that growing isn't always steady. That some seasons bring more leaves than others. That strength often looks like simply turning toward whatever light you can find.

Instead, I unfurled a new leaf. It's what I do best.

Writer: Iqra Jamal