A corner seat, new roots a lasting bond
Asher Butt
It was 8:45 on the morning of October 1, 2022, when I stepped into the Floriculture and Landscaping Training Institute at Bagh‑e‑Jinnah, unsure of the faces, the atmosphere or even the subject that awaited me. I had pictured a room full of traditional gardeners and nurserymen; instead I found a surprising cross‑section of life — government employees, businessmen, doctors, biologists, housewives and a handful of curious souls like me who simply wanted to learn how to grow vegetables at home and make a natural haven for our pet birds.
The Floriculture & Landscaping Training Institute at Bagh-e-Jinnah (Lawrence Gardens), Lahore, offers free entirely a practical, government-sponsored One-year, 3-month course and two-week exclusive ladies courses in gardening, floriculture, and landscaping and kitchen gardening.
The front rows were taken by the more delicate members of society, so I drifted to a corner seat and found myself beside Tanveer, a YouTuber who ran a channel called Home Kitchen Gardening. It was Tanveer’s video that had nudged my soulmate to insist I enrol; otherwise I might never have answered the banner’s call that I saw almost daily hanging at the gardens. The instructors — Saleem Akhtar, Tauseef Akhlaq, Dr Abdul Salam Khan, Javed Cheema, Gazal Rahim and Farwa Batool — were consummate professionals, and the institute’s free, year‑round courses quickly rewired the way I saw green spaces.
The three‑month course moved from late summer heat into December’s chill and was rich with practical learning: hands‑on sessions, chrysanthemum displays at Jilani Park, visits to Greater Iqbal and Jallo Botanical Gardens, a ladies’ excursion to a suburban training centre and many guided walks through the history of Jinnah Gardens. Classmates who began as strangers — Atif, Tanveer, Tariq sb, Umer, Jamshed, Shahzad and I — became companions through shared toil and laughter. We were back‑benchers who learned to read soil as well as each other and not forgetting Aftab Ahmed Khan (now late) while Shahzad disappeared to the busy nature of life.
What surprised me most was how a small group of classmates evolved into a tight circle of friends. Even after the course ended, six of us continued to meet regularly for breakfast, tea and the occasional dinner; our mango parties by the canal became a ritual and of course the iftar parties at Umer’s, Tarik’s, Atif’s homes or a breakfast of Hareesa and Bong Paya at Tanveer’s has now become a routine. We argued politics and disagreed loudly, yet those debates never broke the bond. Some now take motorbike trips to the northern mountains; others stay connected by calls and messages. Four of the six tend birds at home — lovebirds, Alexandrians and cockatiels — and that shared affection for nature has been the glue that keeps us together. While Tanveer hucks up for fishing, his hobby of years old now.
Our friendship is rooted in curiosity and cultivated by time. We began as learners of plants and ended up as custodians of each other’s stories: the quiet encouragement after a failed experiment, the shared pride when a seedling thrived, the steady presence through life’s small storms. In a world that often prizes speed over patience, our group learned to slow down, to notice the green, and to care — for gardens and for one another.
The course taught us how to tend a garden; friendship taught us how to tend a life. In the end, the greatest harvest was not the vegetables we grew but the companionship we nurtured — a reminder that the most enduring gardens are the ones we cultivate together. While staying close to nature.
