There is a row of perfectly viable yet uprooted alocasias at his feet.
Eighteen years ago, the red brocade sari weighing me down, Appa had asked if I was sure. “He doesn’t seem very vital.”
The Elephant’s Ears had been like velvet against my legs.
“I loved those plants,” I said.
“Well, they weren’t edible yams,” he says.
Appa has removed them by the corms. They look like severed trunks.
“Anyway, it is done now.”
What he means is there are plants that serve no purpose but their own. He means there is no room in my garden for such luxuries. He means, put them on the sidewalk for someone who can afford that.
Sumitra Singam is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. Her work has been published widely, nominated for a number of Best Of anthologies, and was selected for BSF 2025. She works as a psychiatrist and trauma therapist and runs workshops on how to write trauma safely, and the Yeah Nah reading series. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com.