Read by Matilda Longbottom

The chipped enamel mug bumped funky music against my ear as I crouched by the dusty earth. Sunlight sliced through the mango tree like a laser beam, spotlighting the scene—me and a dozen seed packets ripped open like invitations to a groovy flower party. Each packet held the promise of a sunflower, a promise I wasn’t just making to myself, but to this funky little patch of earth behind Amma’s house.

The backyard, usually a mosh pit for my brother and me, was chilling with anticipation. We’d cleared the weeds together, busting moves as dust devils did the robot in the dry afternoon. Now, with each flick of my wrist, I pressed a seed into the soil. Tiny mantras whooshed out like rap lyrics on my breath, for rain, for sunshine, for life to bloom where there had been nothing but dirt.

Days turned into weeks. The stubborn earth was like a bad record player, stuck on repeat, refusing to play along. Then, one misty morning, a miracle sprouted—a single, determined green shoot that was breaking it down. Soon, there were more, reaching for the sunrise like disco dancers. Every spare moment found me digging the scene with the sunflowers. I’d water them with the hose, rapping stories as the water splashed like a funky beat. I chased away caterpillars with a stick, feeling a twinge of guilt at their tiny, disappointed bodies that scuttled away like breakdancers.

The sunflowers grew taller than me, their broad leaves high-fiving my face as I walked through them. Amma would groove on the scene from the kitchen window, a familiar warmth blooming in her eyes that mirrored the sunflowers. We’d hang out on the back-porch swing in the evenings, the air thick with the sweet perfume of their pollen, like incense at a chill concert.

My brother, bored at first, found his own funky vibe with the sunflowers. He’d camouflage himself amongst them, giggling as I pretended to search for him, the golden giants hiding his laughter like a funky echo chamber. Then came the day the first bud appeared. A tight, green fist promising a burst of sunshine. Every morning, I’d wake up with a rush of excitement, shuffling to the backyard to see if it had bloomed. One morning, it had. A single, giant sunflower, its face tilted towards the east, sipping on the first rays of dawn. It was a sight that could melt your turntable, a beacon of gold against the clear blue sky.

Over the next few weeks, the backyard transformed into a funky sunflower disco. A sea of sunflowers, all turning their faces towards the rising sun, created a world of its own. Bees buzzed like a funky sample, gathering pollen. Butterflies did the jitterbug amongst them, wings the color of the midday sky. Even the dusty earth seemed to shimmer with reflected sunlight.

But sunflowers, like all things beautiful, are fleeting, impermanent like a funky one-hit wonder. The golden petals started to droop, the centers turning a deep brown. Yet, even in their decline, they held a strange beauty. My brother and I collected the fat, black seeds, a promise for next year’s sunshine bash. As I helped Amma clear the dried stalks, a bittersweet groove settled in my chest. But as I looked around at the empty patch, the memory of the golden disco lingered. It wasn’t just sunflowers that grew in that backyard; it was a connection, a funky conversation between the earth, the relentless sun and me. And I knew, with a certainty that thumped like a bassline, that next year, the whispers would begin again, and the backyard would be filled with sunshine once more. ❖

About the Author: Muskan Dixit is a passionate gardener and storyteller with a knack for blending humor and creativity into her narratives. She believes gardening is a never-ending adventure and delights in sharing her experiences with a touch of whimsy and warmth. Muskan’s stories celebrate the vibrant bond between humans and nature, inviting readers to join her on a journey filled with laughter, lessons, and a lot of sunshine.