She visits me every night. Sometimes reticent, often exhausted, always in anticipation.

She comes in from the left gate. Eyes puffed up, limbs aching after a day of favors and endeavors. Dinners and summons. Endless gazing into the blue light. Being perfect and poised. Responsible and irreproachable. Tiptoeing around the world, as if walking on glass. Dancing with the Prince. Sometimes with him, sometimes at his whim.

Then, just as the clock strikes 12, it is time to leave the ball.

She beats a speedy exit, without waiting for long goodbyes. Lest her coach turn into a pumpkin, her dress into a piece of rags. Or worse, God forbid, her face return to its natural form.

She runs, throwing off her slippers, and arrives, straight into my waiting arms.

No. I am not your friendly old Fairy Godmother. I am neither so random nor rotund. I don’t do one-night miracles. I don’t work for pity.

I am the constant in a woman’s life. A magical haven, a faithful companion. An exacting audience, a supportive technician. A compassionate counsellor, a demanding mother.

I am the Garden of Perpetual Youth.

*

It is often faeries and trolls who introduce women to me.

Biting criticism or a helpful nudge. Either works well to send them in my direction, grasping for self-assurance and hopeful respite.

But only when it is time.

The right time arrives differently for different women.

A young maiden with insolent acne or an unbecoming scowl might come to me to secure her romantic future. Or it might be the moment she holds her first child, and her eyes travel wistfully to the shape of her legs or the marks on her belly. Some might neglect their own selves for years altogether, until one day, they pause to look at the mirror and wonder who is looking back.

For the Princess, it was the year she turned 34.

From within, she still felt the same. But she started noticing that something was changing around her, outside of her.

The Prince did not look at her with the same longing, the same impatient desire. He was away a lot, on wars and conquests and other royal business. Now the Princess was a reasonable, intelligent woman. She understood that the royal position came with burdens and responsibilities.

But it was not just the Prince. It was everyone. They seemed to not look at her anymore. Or look but not really see her. Or see but only a smaller, diminished version of her former self. No more awestruck admirers or surreptitious glances, no barely veiled flirtations or lingering goodbyes.

This was strange to the Princess. She had never considered herself a vain person, excessively pre-occupied with her looks. Nor was she unhappy with the Prince or looking for passion outside of their relationship.

She was simply accustomed to being the most beautiful, the most desirable, woman in every room. Beautiful, but also innocent. Beautiful, but not too proud. Beautiful, but kind and gentle, heart flowing with compassion. She liked these adjectives and performed them faithfully.

But as I said, there is always a breaking point.

No woman can resist her fate, or the day she needs me like she has never needed anyone before. Then I become her private indulgence, her shadowy secret, her one true love.

*

She comes into my folds every night, entering through the left gate.

I welcome her with a cool breeze, leaves rustling for effect.

First, I invite her into the crystal blue pool, to soak into mineral waters from Himalayan hot springs, so the worries of her day can slowly melt away. Then, she makes her way to the rose patch, where glistening pink petals spray their purifying water on her freshly open pores.

Now, the real magic begins. Floral aromas come together in a sensual blend, for rejuvenation, radiance and revival. Essential oils of lily, jasmine and neroli drip and flow, travelling deep into her essence, through six pulsating pulse-points.

And how can we forget the eyes?

So fragile, yet so complicated. Here, sorrow brings dark circles and laughter, fresh lines. She rests in the gazebo for a while, as wild honey, coffee and lavender come together in a masque, transforming the vigilant fatigue for her eyes into relaxed insight.

Every night, I watch over her as she moves through every step, every patch, every corner, and before you know it, it is time to part. A final pause by the babbling brook of timelessness. Here, she lingers for a moment, taking in her reflection, overcome by an urge, primal and evolutionary.                                                                        

                                         

Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest…?  

Then, she remembers that jealousy is for resentful step-mothers and evil witches. She is neither. She is the Princess. The kind, wise, beautiful Princess. The eternally youthful Princess.

 *

Have I told you the story of how the Princess came to know of me?

She was all of ten, running in the mud, chasing after kites, playing hide-and-seek with her four brothers. Typical princess-y stuff.

It was way before her time, of course. But the Princess was an inquisitive little girl, from what I hear. Always wandering beyond her bounds, or hiding in the attic, buried in books.

I can just picture it now. Little curls and a flowy white dress, its hems catching spots and specks of brown. Much to the Queen Mother’s chagrin, of course.

Why are you so tiresome? Ladies don’t behave this way!

Ladies don’t make noise. Ladies don’t laugh loudly. Ladies don’t eat with their mouths open.

Such and other prescriptions frequently came her way.

All this seemed unfair to the little Princess. But she did not want to make Mother upset, already so tired and tense, frequently falling ill. So she tried her best to listen to all the instructions and to be on the best behavior she possibly could.

Except for late in the afternoons, when Mother seemed to disappear for a few hours daily, mysteriously, one might say, without explanation or destination. But that was alright, as she would return just in time for supper, hints of relief and joy on her otherwise strained face.

During this time, the Princess could kick up a storm, let her hair down.

But one day, Mother had been gone for too long and the Princess started to feel a little uneasy, and a little too hungry. So she walked, first through the palace gardens, then a little farther, searching, wandering, till she almost reached the edge of the forest.

Here, she saw a strange old woman, with a spindle and a needle, seated on the grass, under the weeping willow tree. Face covered in wrinkles, gnarly fingers, crooked chin. But her eyes held the most carefree laughter, as she sat there spinning in the low light of dusk.

What are you looking for my child? Your mother is occupied in her secret garden!

*

The Prince is getting irked by her obsession with me. A little jealous, might I add?

I don’t mean to sound conceited, but she does spend a lot more quality time with me these days. Then again, who should we blame for that?

Once upon a time, I was a well-kept secret, even from the Prince.

This did not surprise me. For ages, women have hidden me from their husbands and lovers, fathers and brothers.

The one space in their life that is theirs, and theirs alone. With me, they can shed off their masks and armor, be completely vulnerable, naked. Would the men in their life be able to handle such intimacy? Moreover, would they be able to handle the truth? That beauty in women is not as natural and effortless as they assume, but needs care, and work. And well, me.

But the Prince and Princess were not a traditional couple. They were progressive, evolved, of and with the times. Their relationship was one of trust and truth, not power and deceit. Or so they preferred to believe.

So the Princess revealed her truth, inviting the Prince to accompany her in her nightly ritual. I accepted him gracefully, without complaint or prejudice, offering him an inclusive atmosphere and equal treatment.

These coupled visits added a touch of the sensual to their conjugal life.

Now I am not one of those voyeuristic gardens. I don’t watch-and-tell, showing total respect for the privacy of my visitors. Let’s just say the royal couple enjoyed their nocturnal escapades, and rumor has it, woke up the next morning with exquisite after-glows.

After a while, the Prince started visiting lesser.

He became busier, had to sleep earlier, had engagements early the next morning. I noticed his nose grow slightly longer every time he proffered such an explanation. My guess is he found me an affront to his masculinity. In my defense, I tried really hard to indulge him with special flavors, like charcoal and musk and ale, for his tough, manly skin.

Soon enough, it was back to the Princess and me, how things were supposed to be. Perhaps the Prince found his own garden.

With men, I am told, it is an even bigger secret.

*

Where were you, Mother? And what is a secret garden?

You shouldn’t be in the woods at this hour, Princess. It is not safe for young girls.

But the nice old Granny told me…

And you really shouldn’t talk to strangers!

But why do you go there? What do you do there?

Alright. See, every woman has a garden for when she needs to rest, to take a break from her every day.

But why would a woman need a break from her every day?

You will know all about it when you are older!

Really? I can’t wait to be older!!

*

Did I mention, I am self-rejuvenating and adaptive to weather changes?

My red soil holds the perfect composition for a detoxifying mud masque. Every season, I grow new herbs and flowers, locally sourced, specific to climate demands. Aloe vera to beat the summer heat. Cocoa, sorry cacao butter, for dry parched winters. Tea tree for humid autumns and clogged pores.

The Princess prefers variety. So sometimes, I change the landscape, refresh things a bit, add a touch of novelty, a flavor, an ingredient, a color. Rosehip and Argan. Hibiscus and saffron. Pomegranate and thyme. Olive and red vine.

My premises are now completely organic, without a single trace of chemical or paraben. And did I mention, we are also vegan and cruelty-free? Any bees or birds, bunnies or mice that you see here are calm and unharmed, magical and only to cuddle.

All of this and more for my Princess. Because she is worth it.

*

She visits me more frequently these days.

Particularly since April, when she did not receive an invite for the Royal Spring Socials, where the youth meet and mingle. She must have been surprised to be suddenly, almost overnight, excluded from this privileged category.

She spends time in the library reading about gardens like me. How should we be designed, maintained, landscaped? What ingredients and rituals must we contain? She has started using terms like collagen, biotin, and hyaluronic acid. Is this why women are discouraged from studying science?

I think back fondly to the time she first started visiting me.

So enamored by my little flourishes, so pleased with my indulgences. Taking off the crown from her uneasy head to step into her body, just a woman. That is my power and purpose, what I strive for. I was born to make women feel better about themselves.

But now, no matter what I do, she seems dissatisfied. Wanting something else, something more, something new. Tangled and always striving.

My original design had three perfect steps: cleanse, tone, moisture. After the research from Korea and Japan came in, we expanded to five steps, seven, then ten. We borrowed from every corner of the world. Indian Ayurveda and Chinese medicine, African rainforests and Jeju islands.

But the Princess is no longer content with treasures of the earth. She now seeks marine inspiration, in seaweed and red algae that grows on the Pacific coast.

I try my best to keep up with her ever-growing aspirations. I am, after all, a royal server. But sometimes, a feeling of doubt creeps in. Is it possible, can it really be, could I be failing at my job?

*

Something is not quite right with the Princess.

Technically, she is now the Queen. But I was not invited for the coronation, and to me, she will always be my Princess.

Just yesterday, as she was wiping away the day’s grime with a chamomile-soaked mint leaf, I noticed tears. And today, she stood by the brook of timelessness for a very long time, quietly swimming in waves of nostalgia.

This is not the first time I have noticed her cry. When she does, I envelope her in a cool soft breeze, coaxing music out of fronds and leaves and birds.

She comes three times a day now, sometimes four, no matter what has happened, is presently happening, or God forbid might happen.

Like when there were floods in the lowlands and entire fields were destroyed. Or the Prince was away at war, and there was no word for months. Or when Queen Mother’s illness became long and final, and she passed over to her Heavenly abode.

She just visits me more and more. She no longer complains, or attempts to improve me. Sometimes she doesn’t even bother with the rituals. She just wants to spend time here. Believe it or not, this makes me really anxious. Her growing sadness seems beyond my realm of competence, way above my job description.

I am a mere garden of beauty and youth. What am I supposed to do? How can I be of any help?

*

At the behest of the Royal Doctor, I am now enhanced with a number of features keeping the Princess’s health in mind.

Beauty is not skin-deep, that much I always knew. And age is just a number, a state of mind. I am now a garden of holistic well-being. Physical, mental, emotional and spiritual.

First, a rock garden was added with healing crystals and singing bowls. Then, a serene Buddha in stone, a Namaste inscription on his folded arm. A spot of meadow directly facing the rising sun was cleared for morning yoga. Herbs of sage and ylang-ylang to calm the nerves. Singing chimes with oceanic vibrations for chakra-cleansing and aura-healing. A variety of natural teas- lemongrass and licorice, chrysanthemum and curcumin, blue lotus and butterfly pea, full of antioxidants and immunity boosters.

Still, nothing seems to help the Princess. Nothing seems to heal her.

She looks more exhausted by the day, quiet, numb, withdrawn into herself. Her limbs ache, and a strange fatigue has overcome her bones and joints. She moves slow and weary as if carrying a giant weight. Mostly she wants to just lie down and rest.

I fear that my Princess has fallen prey to a poisonous apple or an invisible needle. Slowly but surely, she is falling asleep.

*

It is months since I have seen the Princess. Or years? I have lost all sense of time.

A strange contagious virus has attacked the kingdom. Human touch has become hazardous. People are commanded to stay locked down in their houses under strict orders of the King. But the Princess has been isolated for a long time now, barely leaving her bed chambers.

My sources within the palace bring me fragments of information, but never the whole truth.

She breaks out in warm sweat, has frequent night tremors. She has lost her sense of smell. Her skin erupts into red patches. Her gut has turned sensitive, unable to digest certain foods, or perhaps, certain truths.

Some say the virus found its way to the Princess, defiant as she was, of royal customs and mandates. Some say it is grief, owing to the loss of her Mother. Others say it is because she has no children of her own.

Royal doctors are still trying to get to the source of this illness. In the end, it might be just hysteria, they say, common in women of this age.

Though he has not declared this in public, the Prince believes I am to blame. In his opinion, I overwhelmed her body, with the promise of a magic elixir. At some point, the word ‘toxic’ was used in reference to me.

I am extremely pained by such insinuations. That I, I, deceive and manipulate naive women! I am doubly offended that the Princess is considered incapable of her own mind.

*

It was only a matter of time before I was shut down by the Royal Court.

The official grounds for this order were ‘safety and protection of women’. We are not a totalitarian regime, they insisted, to impose arbitrary prohibitions. I hear most secret gardens have seen a similar fate.

The Princess is ‘strongly advised’ against visiting me, encouraged to focus instead on other interests and hobbies, such as cooking and helping people in need. I suspect she simply does not care anymore. She has no interest in retaining her youth. And I have lost all will to live.

At this point, I am less garden, more wasteland.

Stalks unruly, shrubs overgrown, weeds and vines running wild. Shoots dried, flowers cried, herbs died, unable to survive outside their natural ecosystems. Formerly blooming meadows now bleed with thorns. My crystal blue pool, now a stagnant muddy brown. My corners infested by leeches and locusts, frogs and flies. The babbling brook is now a soundless swamp, silenced by the cruelty of chronology. Slime and moss cover my rocks, and the chimes dance to an ominous tune.

Only the Buddha remains Zen.

Summoning his wisdom and patience, I wait every day. And pray that someone will look at me with compassion. Some maiden will meander in my direction, craving my care. I need to be needed again. To feel green, fertile again.

*

One day, like a bolt from the blue, I spot her in the distance.

It is a dark cloudy afternoon on a particularly inauspicious day, when Venus and Saturn are both in retrograde. She appears as an illusion, a spirit, an apparition. Are my eyes deceiving me or have I descended into predestined madness?

But it is her. Certainly. Undoubtedly. Indisputably. We have shared such closeness, I would recognize her from lightyears apart. Her face, her body, her soul.

She rides on top of a lone white horse, hair and skirts bellowing in the wind. Where is her golden carriage? Where are the helpers, her maids, foot soldiers? No. Today, she is unaccompanied, unshielded.

No armor or crown.

No family or ancestry.

No subjects or royalty.

No mask or personality.

She walks slowly in my direction, limbs shaking but resolve steady.

She arrives at my boundless wilderness. My hopes rise and swell, even as I realize how unprepared I am for her arrival, any hopes of me being of service, ready to be quickly quelled.

What contempt, what disgust, what rejection must I prepare for?

Yet, I cannot help but wait for her.

She comes closer.

Her skin translucent, luminous, like she has just awakened from deep restful sleep. Hair wild and disobedient, sprinkled with careless grey. Face carved with lines of shape-shifting serenity. Eyes flooded with a deep, fierce longing. Restless sorrow in her body transmuted into something light and liquid.

She is looking back at me. At my weeds and vines, flies and thorns, slime and moss, my uncontained overgrowth. Unfettered. Unafraid. Similarly besotted.

We take each other in, for a long silent moment.

A moment so long, and so silent, the earth stops dancing around the sun. A spell is cast over the entire kingdom. Dancing pendulums wait on tiptoe in improbable equilibrium. Cuckoo birds halt on the edge of their doors, mid-song. Straight lines of destiny take a soft, circular form. And in that moment, something truly perpetual is born.

***