The Singapore Rooftop Garden – Part 2: Shared Harvest

The tape came up on a Saturday.

They tore it off together, strip by strip, laughing, and the two halves of the garden became one. Chillies grew beside basil. Lemongrass leaned on the pandan. Priya built a trellis for the beans. Mei Ling painted a little sign: Block 14 Garden. Peace treaty signed.

In June, everything ripened at once.

They cooked on the roof, on a borrowed camping stove: a fragrant green curry of basil and bird's-eye chillies, rice steamed with pandan, a salad of cucumber and mint. The sun slid behind the skyscrapers, turning the sky tangerine and then lilac. The city lights came on, a vast glittering field, with the harbour dark beyond.

They ate on the rooftop, sitting cross-legged on a mat, with candles in jam jars.

"This is the best curry I've ever eaten," said Priya.

"It's your basil."

"It's your chillies."

"It's our garden."

The word hung between them, soft and shy. A warm breeze stirred the leaves. Far below, a train rumbled past.

"Can I ask you something?" said Mei Ling.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you?"

Priya's eyes shone. "Yes," she said. "And if you say stop, you must water every pot on the roof for a month."

"There are two hundred."

"I know. I counted."

Mei Ling leaned across and kissed her, softly, one hand cupping her warm cheek. Priya kissed her back with slow, sweet confidence, her fingers curling in Mei Ling's hair. The kiss tasted of lime and chilli and coconut. Overhead, a single plane glided silently across the stars.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Priya.

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

The clipboard still hangs on the roof door. The last note, in two handwritings, reads: Dinner at eight. Bring the basil.

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