My eyes fell on the prickly cactus on my balcony. Fleshy, bulbous, and very prickly, but hardy. And so very undemanding. Did I imagine it, or was there a glistening drop of moisture trembling at the end of a spine – a teardrop perhaps?

And then the cactus spoke.

Long, long ago…

“A desert is where I was born. But it wasn’t always a parched land. We would gather around my grandfather as he recited tales of the past, tales he had heard from his own grandfather. Our home was once land of greenery, a land of plenty. A land of water, trees and shade. Then the river shrank and its waters slowed to a trickle. The last drop dried. Entire families died—withering slowly, from the tip of their green shoots to their life-sustaining roots. The landscape turned into a haze of brown; the soil was bare, the air dusty. The wind blew mercilessly, bringing in swirling grainy sand. And a desert was born.

But we weren’t ready to die. We wanted to live. To survive. This was our home. A home that had been devastated, but it was the only home we had. We couldn’t leave as the animals and birds did, for we had no legs to walk and no wings to fly. We were rooted there.

The transformation

So we stayed. We adapted. We learnt to do with less. Much, much less. Every scant drop of life-giving water that came our way, we conserved and hoarded. We shed our glossy foliage, beautiful as it was—there was no room for vanity. It was a question of survival.

Our tender leaves shrivelled into the prickly spines that you see now. Ugly, yes, but they served their purpose. They were frugal and tough. And they we protected us—for the few animals that remained were desperate for a nibble of green. Now that we could no longer give them food, or shelter or shade, we were demonised and labelled as ‘the prickly cactus’!

The burning heat of summer almost killed us, but we lived. And finally, came the life-giving rain. We gathered up all we could greedily, swiftly, thirstily. But with our leaves gone, we needed to find ways of making and storing the reserves of food and water we would need for the long, tough months ahead. Our bodies were all we had. They grew misshapen and thick, grotesquely so! Bulbous, ridged, swollen and deformed. And covered all over with those prickly spines.

Then came the humans

But not the toughest spines could protect us from what came next. The rampaging humans—always on the lookout for what they could get from others. They cut us down to protect their cattle, their meagre farm holdings, and their dwellings. They ate my young tender flesh, picked my juicy berries, made intoxicating beverages out of the food we stored in our trunks. They found that brilliant cochineal dye on the insects that swarmed on me.

Those were the ‘natives’. Then came those they called ‘the conquerers’. They gawked at us in amazement; they had never seen monstrous ‘plants’ like us before. They marvelled at our unique shapes, they were fascinated by how we lived. They uprooted some of us and took us back to their homes—frigid lands of rain and fog and snow. They called us ‘exotic’, they made special arrangements to keep us warm and comfortable. We travelled every corner of the the world. From the wilderness of the desert to the luxury of hothouses and terrariums—its been a remarkable journey.

A prized bloom

There are some who still don’t look beyond our prickly exteriors. However, others appreciate our sturdy independence while some see us as the ultimate survivors. For them and for those who spare the time to get to know us, we nurture a prized secret deep within our misshapen and bloated bodies. Once a year—sometimes once in many years—we bloom. Vivid, bright, flamboyant; blooms that light up our lives and those of others. Look out for them, for they die soon.”

So saying, the prickly cactus bloomed.