The Singapore Rooftop Garden – Part 1: Rival Beds

The rooftop garden of Block 14 had two gardeners and one sunny corner.

"It's mine," said Mei Ling.

"It's shared," said Priya.

"I have chillies. They need full sun."

"I have basil. It also needs full sun."

They stood on the hot concrete in the morning light, among crates and pots and a plastic hose, glaring. Mei Ling was thirty, a graphic designer, with a ponytail and a dry sense of humour. Priya was thirty-three, a physiotherapist, tall, in a faded sundress, with long black hair and a sarcastic smile.

The roof had belonged to the building's residents for years, a patchwork of jam jars and polystyrene boxes and rusty wheelbarrows, a green island above the grey city. Everyone had a corner. These two had the same one.

"Then we divide it," said Priya.

"Fine."

"With a line."

"A line of tape."

"Down the centre."

They taped. They watered their respective halves with theatrical dignity. For weeks, they communicated only through passive-aggressive notes on a clipboard. Your chilli leaf is on my basil. Your basil is on my chilli.

Then a monsoon storm tore across the island.

It came without warning, a wall of grey and rain, with a crack of thunder that shook the stairwell. Mei Ling raced up the stairs with an armful of tarpaulin. Priya was already there, soaked, trying to cover a trembling row of pots.

"Help!"

They worked together in the howling rain, heaving crates, stringing plastic, laughing and shouting. When the worst had passed, they sat on an upturned bucket under the stair canopy, panting, dripping.

"Can I ask you something?" said Priya.

"Yes."

"Do you still want the tape?"

"No," said Mei Ling.

"Green?" said Priya, a word from the chilli.

"Green," said Mei Ling, laughing. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Shared Harvest.