Abed’s Garden
One-by-one, students whipped out their latest muses: Their latest handphone, The Diary of a Wimpy Kid book collection, a completed Among Us Lego set. “Um... Cikgu, is it OK if I bring my laptop outside?” Abed’s voice interrupted the class. “I want to show you all something but we have to be outside.” A little stumped by the change of pace, I agreed, while the other kids glued themselves to the screen. “So uh, my favourite possessions in the world are my plants, which are in this solar-powered greenhouse. Abah and I are working on it! It has sensors that can tell how humid it is in here, and if it gets too dry, the sprinklers will automatically spray water all over the place…” I did not know Abed’s interest in gardening nor the fact that he spent the last 6 months of quarantine creating a personal utopia of sylvan colour. I noticed the other students paying attention, a rarity in our classroom. Some of them looked confused, as if cili padi trees were extra-terrestrial, or purple carrots could give them superpowers. The way he spoke of his paradise rang with sentiments of biophilia — how he is selling his ripened tomatoes to his neighbors, his mum extracting essential oils out of the flowers, and how he’d love to grow trees and flowers in Malaysia’s concrete jungles, discover caves, and take care of national parks. “Amazing, Abed!” I exclaimed. My pessimism dimmed in the shadow of Abed’s child-like faith. Abed grinned with cheeks as flushed as his cherry tomatoes.
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