This morning, while making coffee, I caught myself doing it again—staring out the window like it was a cinema screen. My backyard vegetable patch has become my morning news channel. Today’s top story?
“Indian Onions Stage Brave Uprising Against Canada’s Drama Queen Weather.”

We planted two batches—one early, one later. I check on them like a nervous parent watching toddlers stumble through life on a planet that can’t decide whether it’s February or May. This weather has more mood swings than a teenager who just lost phone signal.

And then there’s him. One black squirrel. Self-appointed onion critic. He digs them up, gives them a once-over like he’s hosting a cooking show, then tosses them aside like yesterday’s toast. Apparently, my onions don’t meet his Michelin standards. So, I installed a mesh fence. Not a tough one—more like a polite Canadian bouncer:
“Excuse me, sir, but the gourmet aisle is that way.”

It’s funny, isn’t it? Some fights in life are always the same—only the villains get furrier and cuter.

But truth is, this digging-in-the-dirt thing?
It’s not really about onions.

It’s about something quieter. A kind of peace that hums low in your bones. Not the kind you get from yoga apps or doctor advice. The real stuff. The kind that smells like sun-warmed soil and forgotten afternoons.

Sure, my back hosts a protest rally every time I bend down, and I sweat like I’m standing under the Tamil Nadu sun—even though I’m just under a slightly annoyed Canadian sky. Still, I do it. Not to impress anyone. Not for health apps or Instagram reels.
I do it because it makes me feel real again.

See, my wife and I—we grew up with dirt under our nails. Farming wasn’t a lifestyle blog topic. It was life. No one clapped for growing tomatoes. No one called it “organic.” It just… was. The smell of cows, that thick earthy perfume of punnakku and thavidu soaking in the corner—those were the background songs of our childhood. We didn’t know it was magic back then. We just called it Monday.

And now? Now we get our vegetables from freezer aisles, wrapped tighter than embassy documents. They stick a “Farm Fresh” label on frozen peas like it’s an inside joke. Farm fresh?
That’s about as fresh as a plastic rose claiming it just bloomed.

So I garden.
Not as a hobby.
But as a compass.
Trying to find my way back, one handful of dirt at a time.

And sometimes, when the patch isn’t enough, I drive. Out past Waterloo, where the roads begin to forget they’re roads and start becoming whispers. I pull over. Kill the engine. Watch the cows chew like philosophers and the horses blink like monks. Not a single spreadsheet or notification in sight.

I sit there.
And slowly, something inside me… unwinds.
Like an old watch finally exhaling.

It’s not the home I left behind.
But it tells the same old stories in a different voice.
And sometimes, a whisper is all you need.

Memories? They don’t knock.
They just walk in, muddy shoes and all.

Like that sorghum season. We built tiny wooden stages in the fields—not for performances, but to scare birds away. Farmers standing up there like awkward kings, waving cloth and yelling, defending their green kingdom. And me? I always brought a radio. Back then, radios were everywhere—AM and FM buzzing through every corner of life. People took them to work, listened to songs while plowing fields or fixing engines. I’d stand up there on my stage with a radio humming movie songs in the background. One ear on the music, both eyes on the sky. It felt like I was guarding the field and watching a musical at the same time.

When we got tired of yelling, we built scarecrows. Old shirts, clay pots for heads. Our ghost army—probably scared us more than the birds.

And the dogs.
Not the “pose-for-Instagram” kind.
These dogs didn’t need branded biscuits or spa days. They ate what we ate. Followed us around without leashes or commands—just loyalty, plain and raw. No drama. Just dog.

So now, in my 50s, I bend over this little patch in a country that wasn’t my first home. My knees creak like old floorboards, and my back writes angry letters with every movement. But my mind? It stops spinning. Just for a bit. The future stops pulling, the past stops haunting. There’s only now. A quiet now.

This garden—this little patch—it’s not much to look at.
But it’s enough.
Because I think I’m not really planting onions.

I’m planting pieces of my old self.
I’m planting peace.
I’m planting stories.
Trying to grow back into someone I almost forgot I was.