My Mini Boss

So, yesterday, something momentous happened. I got an orchid to re-bloom. For the first time ever –

About six months back, a friend gifted me a mini orchid with gleaming leaves and creamy yellow-and-pink blooms.

I spend a good chunk of my time in the kitchen. So, I placed my orchid on the kitchen counter, where I could drink in its pint-sized beauty, while I cooked or did dishes.

The flowers continued to delight for almost two months before falling off. Now, this should have signaled the end of the plant’s flowering career, since I’ve never been disciplined about taking care of orchids. Not surprisingly, I’ve never been able to coax a single one to re-bloom.

But this time I looked at the little orchid and said, “I’m going to pamper you silly. And then maybe you’ll bloom for me.”

A quick Google search told me that the orchid’s next blooming cycle was about four months away.

So, for the next three months, I watered my plant assiduously (a word I’ve always wanted to use). Starting month four, I added a phosphorus-rich fertilizer to “encourage profuse blooming” – as the label on the box promised.

And then – I waited. Every time a little green nub sprouted on a stem, I rejoiced and said: This is it!

And each time, the little nub stubbornly branched out into leaves instead of flowers.

I grew desperate and ran a Google search for the following query: Why does my moth orchid refuse to bloom?

The diagnosis – and suggested remedy – across several gardening blogs and websites was this: Maybe your plant isn’t getting enough light. Try moving it closer to a window.

I mulled over the suggestion. I could move the plant to a ledge in my bathroom. The ledge is right by a window. My plant could then bathe all day long in “bright-but-indirect sunlight.”

The location was perfect, except for one thing: I didn’t want to move my plant to the bathroom. I wanted it where I could look at it, touch it, and talk to it – in between dicing potatoes and loading the dishwasher.

And so, the orchid stayed on in the kitchen. Its leaves grew quite large what with all the watering and feeding. But it was resolute in its refusal to bloom. It seemed to have undertaken a floral satyagraha.

Finally, two weeks into this battle of wills, I admitted defeat and moved my orchid to the bathroom ledge.

Two weeks passed. Towards the end of this time, I stopped caring whether the little plant flowered or not. It had put out a shiny, new leaf and a tender aerial root. It was thriving in its new home. That was good enough for me.

And then, one morning, a month after the orchid had migrated to the ledge, my eye fell on a tiny, green, teardrop-shaped appendage just below the tip of a stem. I felt my breath catch in my throat. Could this be the start of the elusive Bloom?

Over the next week, the please-let-it-be-a-bloom swelled and took on the unmistakable ovoid shape of a bud. At the start of week two, its tip broke open, and yellow-green sepals began peeling away from each other.

And, finally, on day thirteen, the Bloom stood before me – proud and perfect – its creamy, dusted-with-pink petals cradling a fuchsia-pink heart.

So, of course, I had to take a picture and post it online.

Maybe this bloom is a one-time thing. Or maybe it’s the start of my grand and glorious vocation as a re-bloomer of mini moth orchids.

Either way, I’ve learned a lesson I believe most orchid lovers know already. And the lesson is simply this: Your plant is the boss of you.