This weekend, S went to a garden party, where a fellow photographer showed off the plants on his terrace and somehow convinced S that it would be a terrific idea to contact his malli (gardener).
Monday morning, our doorbell buzzes. I still have sleep in my eyes, and I don't speak enough Hindi to interact with whomever is seeking baksheesh today, so S heads outside while I retreat to the bathroom.
He bursts back into the bedroom.
"We've got a gardener!"
"Where are we going to get a garden?"
Indeed, we're paying a man to take care of nonexistent plants. C501 residents, single-handedly reducing Delhi's unemployment rate.