Prologue
3,000 BC, Battlefield of Kurukshetra, India
A horn-blast of conch shells breaks into the yellow haze of dawn. The warrior prince, Arjuna, strains to identify the outlines of his cousins amongst the fighters amassing in the distance. The sudden noise has made the horses skittish; they’ve kicked up red dust, obscuring his view.
His cousins—playmates turned to foes by envy—have plotted against Arjuna and his brothers for years. Now, shrouded in that dust cloud, they’re preparing to seize the Pandavas’ rightful claim to the throne of Hastinapura.
Arjuna runs a hand through his hair, on the verge of throwing down his bow and walking away. Eventually he turns back to his own army and crouches on a rocky outcrop beside his charioteer, Krishna.
“The hour draws closer,” he says. “To fire arrows against my own blood for the sake of a kingdom is unbearable. If they prevail, I perish; but to triumph, I must slay my own kin. I cannot win.”
In response, Krishna offers no counsel on the art of war. Instead, he challenges Arjuna to interrogate the battleground in his mind. “What is your purpose in life, Arjuna, your dharma? Look within; decide what is right. Then do it.”
1. Green Fingers
Spring 2021, Yorkshire
Jo looked up to see the postman—the grumpy one who avoided eye contact—rummaging in his bag. Seconds later, the letterbox spat an envelope into the room. Probate documents? She couldn’t face that today, or tomorrow. A redundancy notice, maybe. Whatever it was, staring at the envelope while nibbling her thumbnail was a feeble and pointless activity.
She closed her laptop and shuffled up the steep narrow staircase, the creaking spine of their tiny redbrick terraced house. Crawling into bed, duvet drawn over her head, she sank into the warm dark. Gloom pursued her, seeping in along the folds of fabric, finding her.
If she carried on much longer quaking under the bed covers, suspended in time, Sam would arrive home and discover her in this pitiful state. She forced herself to peel off the quilt and trudge back downstairs. She scooped up the sea of papers scattered across the table, and stuffed them into a wicker basket behind the armchair. Then she placed the envelope on the cleared table. Its angular whiteness stood out, stark and prominent, against the scuffed wooden surface.
*
Sam threw his keys on the table. “Aren’t you going to open this? Looks important.”
Then he followed the homecoming routine of frontline healthcare workers. No kiss, just bag down, clamber upstairs, into the shower. Rinse and repeat.
Jo picked up the letter and turned it over, searching for clues: thin, light, official. She tore it open and unfolded the single sheet of paper. She read it slowly, several times over.
Repetition nudged the message of the words into being and made space inside her for a small, wary glow of hope.
Probate paperwork would come, but not today. Her mundane admin job was safe for now. Finally, she’d risen to the top of the council waiting list to become the registered holder of Plot Twelve, Darmer Road Allotment. All that swotting up and drawing sketches had kept her sane through lockdown; now the detailed plans rooted in her notebooks could be transplanted into real soil.
At the sound of Sam bounding back down the stairs, she quickly smudged away the tear on her cheek.
“You okay?” he asked, reaching for her hand.
“Why?”
“You look a bit odd, that’s all.” He kissed the tip of her nose.
“I always look like this.” A sliver of a smile crossed her serious face.
“No, you don’t.” He nodded at the letter. “Anything to do with that?”
“Actually, yes. It’s good news…great news.” She paused, long enough for his eyes to register expectation and then, when she still wasn’t forthcoming, frustration.
“Come on then, spill the beans!”
“I’ve got an allotment.”
“At last! Brilliant.” He pointed to the begonia beside him and to the trailing pothos and snake plant on the shelf above. “Good job you bought so many plants to practise on.” He studied her face. “Excited?”
“’Course I’m excited…but nervous. Keeping a few house plants alive is one thing, but now I’ll have to contend with a bunch of gnarly old allotment blokes sniggering at me from under their flat caps.” She slid the letter back into its envelope.
“Come on, Jo. You’ve done your homework. The only green thing about you is your fingers… You’re ready.” Sam wriggled his own fingers before beckoning to her across the jungle of their sitting room.
From the comfort of his embrace, Jo looked at the jaunty daffodils on the windowsill outside, trumpeting the onset of spring. Things were starting to happen.
*
“What are you up to so early?” Sam mumbled, reaching for the coffee she’d brought upstairs for him.
“I need to get a move on with my plot, otherwise they’ll kick me out before I’ve even started.”
The way he raised an eyebrow, his attention fully on her—one minute she was scrabbling about in the semi-darkness for clean socks, the next she was stilled, held by his gaze. It would be so much easier just to slide back into bed with him.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Stop malingering. You’ve done nothing since that letter arrived. When was it?” He paused, hand on chin, frowning. “Ah, I remember. Yesterday.”
“Very funny.” She pulled up the blinds. “Look. The sun’s out. It’s not raining. I’m seizing the day.”
He propped himself up. “I’m all for that. And for relaxing, stress-free hobbies.”
“I just need to get started.” She worked her straight brown hair into a chunky plait. A glance at her unadorned face in the mirror confirmed that, apart from her lopsided, overgrown fringe, she’d do. “Want to come?”
“No, thanks. I’m meeting the Goons at eleven.”
No point competing with the Goon Squad; she’d have to go it alone. “Nice! Say hello from me.” She snatched a kiss before dragging herself away. “See you later then.”
She slung on her rucksack and set out, cycling along lockdown-quiet streets. The village diminished behind her as she pedalled into open countryside. This would have been so much easier with Sam at her side. How come she’d been able to travel happily around Asia for months before he arrived on the scene, yet now she found taking on an allotment by herself a big deal? What had happened to her?
She could still turn back to the sanctuary of their bed—but she’d only end up lying there, biting her nails and berating herself. So she carried on pedalling, towards a place that would, if nothing else, get her out of a tedious rut. To quell her rising nerves, she directed her thoughts towards Sam, imagining him reuniting in person with his old pals Raj and Tom.
The Goon Squad had been a tight trio ever since primary school. Sam had a grainy Polaroid that captured their fresh-faced five-year-old selves in the nativity play: Raj, living up to his name, a proud king standing tall, hat and boots shimmering with silver foil and tinsel; Sam, an angel with a beatific smile perched on a table at the back; and Tom, a cuddly sheep who, not long after the photo was taken, took a little nap and toppled off the stage. Their form teacher’s casting choices demonstrated a shrewd and prescient understanding of her pupils: these three, at any rate, had stuck close to their allotted roles right through to the current day.
At a derelict barn Jo turned sharp right onto Darmer Road, a steep, twisty hill flanked by dry stone walls and skeletal ash trees. The track snaked up to the allotment and beyond, its route etched along the contours of the landscape, towards the Pennines.
A year of inactivity, interspersed with regular snacks, had taken a toll not only on her mental health but on her fitness as well. She was no match for the gradient, and soon enough she grew breathless, her calves beginning to cramp. She pulled into a passing place to retrieve an inhaler from her rucksack.
Below was the old mining village, still working out what to do with itself. Rows of redbrick terraced houses fanned out from the school, pub, and church. In one of those streets was their house; in their tiny kitchen, Sam would be tucking into breakfast.
A tractor rolled past, driven by a grinning boy who looked about twelve—probably one of the farmer’s sons. Momentum lost, Jo had no choice but to push her bike up after the tractor, spluttering in the wake of its diesel fumes. At the brow of the hill, she remounted and pressed on along the lane until she reached the weather-beaten wooden gate of Darmer Road Allotment.
She unhooked the rope and pushed the gate open. Stepping through this worn threshold seemed monumental, charged with a significance it could never have possessed pre-lockdown. Closing the gate behind her, she noted a greenhouse to her left, raised beds on the right. Old bins, plastic tubs, and rusty baths for harvesting rainwater were scattered all around. Not yet clothed with spring’s greenery, the skeleton of Darmer Road Allotment stretched out before her.
She headed down the central path towards the stone wall at the end, the ribs of the dozen plots angling out on either side of her. She passed a rickety shed, cobbled together from random doors, windows, and offcuts of wood; a chicken coop; a polytunnel. One plot boasted sprout sticks pointing skywards beside a row of bolting kale, the yellow flowers already making an appearance, attracting the attention of a hopeful bee.
Some plots had a haunted, abandoned quality; Nature, ever the opportunist, had crept back into these to reclaim its territory. Others were clearly functioning as sanctuaries, places of solace for the past year, with evidence of fresh projects completed—a tiny pond, a glorious mural of fruit and flowers embellishing the wall of a shed, a freshly dug plot topped off with a steaming pile of manure.
By the far wall a woman sat on a bench, propped against a shed. One hand was shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight; the other clutched a paperback. According to the diagram on Jo’s council letter, Plot Twelve was directly opposite this woman’s plot, on the other side of the overgrown path.
Jo took out her notebook and jotted down a few observations: the soil seemed stony and quite free-draining; thrillingly, the plot was south-facing; already in situ was a compost heap constructed from pallets against the wall. She stared down at her wellies, standing firmly on the rough soil of Plot Twelve—her plot.
When she turned round, she realised that the woman had been studying her. Her new neighbour was clad in turmeric-yellow dungarees and a sweatshirt that matched the clear spring sky above. Add a ruddy complexion and a scribble of silver-gold hair, and the whole image put Jo in mind of a child’s drawing of the sun. When the woman broke into a wide grin, the skin crinkling around her bright eyes, Jo had to suppress a laugh.
“Eyup love, you’ve bagged that plot then, have you? Nice one!”
“Yeah, it’s been a long time coming.” Jo glanced at the dandelions starting to push through. “Now I’ve got to do something with it.”
“Don’t fret about that. Just do your best. You’ll work it out as you go along.” Jo gave her a grateful smile, and she added, “I’m Kay. Nice to have another lass on site.” She sent a jokey fist bump into the air, then pointed to a sandy-coloured terrier lazing by a wheelbarrow. “That’s my old mate, Arrow.”
The dog raised his head at the sound of his name.
“Hi, Arrow.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Kay. “This dog looks nowt like an arrow.”
“Not at all,” Jo fibbed. “Anyway, he was probably a bit more streamlined when he was younger.”
“No.”
“Well, whatever, he’s a cutie.”
Kay nodded. “He takes it steady these days.”
Jo cast an eye over Kay’s plot, where green shoots were poking through. “It looks so established already.”
“That’s ’cause it’s mostly perennial. Herbs and botanicals are my thing. I do squeeze some veg and salad crops in as well, mind.” Kay bent down and snipped with gusto at a variegated sage, the secateurs a natural extension of her arm. Satisfied with this light pruning, she leaned in closer to Jo. “I prescribe nature’s potions and poultices to those in need. A few locals are convinced I’m a witch.” She chuckled. “If they catch me marking the vernal equinox in a fortnight’s time, that’ll really get their tongues wagging.”
Jo could see how Kay’s idiosyncratic style might elicit comments. “It looks amazing.”
“Ta. Mind you, I’ve got luck on my side.” She pointed at Jo. “So have you.”
“Have I?”
“Aye. Don’t sound so surprised. That stone wall soaks up the sun, and our two plots get the benefit.”
“Good. I’ll need all the help I can get.”
Frowning, Kay snapped off a chive stalk to nibble on. “I’ll be dividing these in a minute, if you want some clumps.”
“Thanks. Chives are on my shopping list.”
“Shopping list? Try cadging off the rest of us before splashing your cash! You’d be surprised how much produce you’ll end up with.”
“Oh, right. I never thought of that.” There was no way Jo was going to wander up and down the path begging strangers for spare plants.
“And, as you’d expect, since we’re slap bang in the middle of the Rhubarb Triangle, there’s no shortage of the pink stuff here.” Kay nodded towards a double plot that straddled the path and bordered their own. “Bit of a contrast to yours.”
Jo eyed the serried ranks of terracotta forcing pots in the double plot. Illuminated by the morning sun, they resembled soldiers primed for inspection before battle, their symmetry radiating an austere, sculptural beauty. To the right of the path, next to Kay’s plot, freshly dug furrows were marked out with labels and string.
“Those old-school allotments make me a bit nervous,” Jo confessed.
“Why? Where’s the rule book that says you should do it that way?” Kay asked.
“I assumed there was one—just not written down anywhere.”
“Why would you assume that? If it’s not been written, crack on and write your own rule book. There’s room for all styles here, from Rhubarb Andy’s traditional plot there to mine and everything in between.”
“It’s hard to picture the variety at the moment,” said Jo, scanning the untended site.
“You’ll see it soon enough, when everyone starts springing into action. But it’s early yet. Trust me, love, if you tend your plot with care, nobody will be bothered what you grow or how you grow it.”
“That’s a relief. I’ll stop worrying about the allotment police then.”
“You do that, love. Whittling’s a waste of time. Mind you, Andy is the allotment rep, so he does keep an eye on what’s going on.”
“No pressure then.” Jo jammed a fist into her pocket to prevent herself from biting her thumb nail.
“No, there’s no pressure.” Kay pointed out a couple of overgrown plots halfway up the path. “Just don’t be like whoever rents those. Letting their weeds spill out all over the shop—that affects all of us.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
Kay threw a stick, and Arrow obligingly heaved himself up onto arthritic legs to retrieve it. “Andy’s all right,” she said. “Not much of a one for chat, granted, and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but if you put the graft in, you’ll earn his respect.”
“I fully intend to put the graft in.” The pledge was to herself as much as to Kay and Rhubarb Andy.
“You’ll be all right, then. And we should cut poor Andy a bit of slack—they’ve just cancelled the annual Rhubarb Festival. The lead judge has gone down with Covid.”
“There goes Covid, spoiling plans again,” Jo muttered.
“Yeah, it’s a chuffing nuisance. Hopefully we’re over the worst of it now. Anyway, Andy’s got a right monk on about his tusky glut.”
Jo looked sympathetic whilst resolving to put that sentence into Google translate when she got home.
“Look, you’ve got your own clump there.” Kay pointed out some broad leaves unfurling next to the makeshift compost heap in Jo’s plot. A pop of candy pink had broken through the cold soil into the mellow spring sunlight. “This time next month, you’ll be tucking into home-grown rhubarb crumble with a dollop o’ custard.” She licked her lips. “Ooh, lovely!”
“Good job there’s one crop already going strong. I might even manage to keep it alive.”
Kay put her hands on her hips. “Love, it seems to me you’re knocking yourself down before you’ve even stuck your shovel in. Go easy on yourself.”
“Yeah, well spotted.” Jo flushed. “I’m trying to kick that habit—not doing very well, though.”
Kay eyed her, stern and amused in equal parts. “There you go again.”
“Sorry. Anyway…I love what you’ve done with your plot.”
“Ta. I’ve had plenty of practice.” She wagged a finger at Jo. “And don’t apologise.”
“Okay, sor… I’ll do my best, I promise. I’d appreciate your advice now and again, once I get started.”
“Aye, love, I’m here if you need me, but that plot is yours. Take time to get to know it. Put your own stamp on it.” She stood back, studying Jo, who occupied her hands in adjusting her hair bobble until Kay gave an almost imperceptible nod. “If you’re ever stuck for anything, I live over there.” She pointed towards the dairy farm on the other side of the wall. “Not the farm—that’s Baz’s.”
“You mean that bright yellow Kombi camper-van under the big old oak?” Jo asked.
“That’s it.”
“My boyfriend’s got his eye out for one of those.”
“Aye, she serves me well. Baz lets me park her there for free and use the camping site’s shower and loo.”
“That’s generous,” said Jo, surprised.
“I put a spot of work in for the pleasure. The deal is I help with the cows and campers—suits me perfect. It’s only two minutes’ walk to the allotment.”
“Very handy,” agreed Jo.
“So what’s your plan today then?”
“I thought I’d dig it over to start with.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’d do. Not sure I’d use that, though.” Kay looked at the fork in Jo’s hand. “Impressive that you brought it on your bike, but I’m wondering if it’s a kid’s one?”
“Oh God, you’re right. It’s a Secret Santa gift.”
“The allotment police might take an interest in that little infringement.”
“What was I thinking?” Thank goodness Andy wasn’t about!
“Relax, love, I’m only kidding! You can borrow my tools for now. Help yourself.” Kay gestured towards her shed. “Right, I’d better get my skates on. I’ve got family to visit this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Kay.”
“You’re welcome; be my guest. Come on, Arrow.”
With that, Kay picked up her doddery dog, climbed the stile over the stone wall, and disappeared up the farm track.
Kay’s shed was a curious mix. Jo found the usual gardening tools and equipment hanging from hooks; a jumble of netting and plant pots filled the space underneath the potting bench. But floating above all that was a shelf which ran the length of the shed, crammed with storage jars. Some contained roots, berries, or dried leaves, and in the smaller ones these raw ingredients seemed to have been refined to a powdered or resinous state. Jo rose onto her tiptoes to get a closer look, and her nose caught the scent of…what? Sea, woodland, lemons? She lingered in this peculiar realm, trying to decipher the spidery script on the labels. Finally, admitting defeat, she sank back down and grabbed a proper, weighty, grown-up fork.
At the corner of her plot, in the nook where the two stone walls met, she pressed her foot down on the fork and turned over the first clod of earth. Her body, jerky and awkward initially, soon found its beat, its rhythm. With every stroke, an unfamiliar intensity—savage almost—took possession of her. Each turn of the soil unearthed a treasure she had lost. A career opportunity—stolen. Her mother—deceased. Her confidence—dissolved. Not to mention the graphic reminder every month, regular as clockwork, of her barren, fruitless state.
Hours later, in the dusky half-light, she stood back, sweaty, panting, and bewildered, to admire Plot Twelve. A thing of beauty—her very own—raked and weed-free. Returning home was more like flying than cycling.
Diary – 7/3/21
I’m starting a dual-purpose diary:
- Gardening—a record of what I plant and when. A place to jot down plans and ideas.
- Therapy—Sam gets his clients to keep a journal to process thoughts, feelings, and behaviours. I’ve got a whole bunch of thoughts, feelings, and behaviours of my own that could do with processing, so I’ll give it a go. No harm in trying.
Today, dug over the plot and raked it to “a fine tilth.” That’s the easy bit—now I’ve got to make my mark on it.
Plan:
* By end of the month—get shallots set and garlic in.
* First early seed potatoes chitting on the windowsill are good to go.
Some regulars have obviously been popping up, but those not within walking distance won’t have made it to the allotment much this year. My neighbour Kay has, since it’s so close that it’s practically her garden—but a fair few will be coming back to it fresh. Not as fresh as me, though. I’m the new kid on the block.
Why did I give Kay the impression that I’m so clueless, when I’ve been obsessed with gardening for months, priming myself for this very moment? After spending a few hours on Darmer Road, though, I realise that I’ve planned the allotment of a seventy-five-year-old bloke, not a thirty-year-old woman. Kay’s apothecary garden (she’s too down-to-earth to call it that) has given me some ideas about how to make it more “me” (whatever that is).
On first impression, Kay comes across as a straightforward, practical kind of person, but then I saw all those weird jars. Maybe she is a witch? Plus, I noticed she’s reading the Bhagavad Gita. A girl I met in Dharamsala raved about that book. I asked if she’d swap it with one I’d got from the book exchange in the momo cafe, but she said she was keeping it. When a backpacker decides to lug a book around that they’ve already read, it sticks in your mind.
Kay intrigues me, this sunny woman who doesn’t give a damn what others make of her. But just being next to Rhubarb Andy’s plot gives me imposter syndrome. Still, I’ve stuck my fork in the ground—well, Kay’s fork—and made a start.
—
Author’s Statement
FINDING THE PLOT is a retelling of the Bhagavad Gita set on an allotment in Yorkshire’s Rhubarb Triangle. The Bhagavad Gita is an ancient Indian scripture which forms part of the epic Mahabharata.
Joanna is failing to conceive, stuck in a mediocre job, and grieving her dead mother. When her covetous stepsisters threaten an inheritance grab, she’s one panic attack away from collapse. Then she lands a plot on Darmer Road. Like Arjuna, who sought the wise counsel of Krishna, Joanna is guided by free‑spirited herbalist Kay on how to face the mess she’s been avoiding. As she digs into the soil, she unearths the buried trauma of a broken, dysfunctional childhood. It would make sense to confide in her partner, Sam, a mental-health worker, but she pulls back, terrified that he’ll reject her. Gradually, however, when she starts tackling the weeds and pests on the plot, in her life, and, crucially, inside her own head, she lays down roots in this new community; she finds home. Plus, she grows some cracking veg.
I grew up in Wakefield, in the Rhubarb Triangle. As an occupational therapist in an NHS mental-health service, I led an allotment gardening group. Now an Iyengar yoga teacher, my practice is grounded in yoga philosophy. These combined interests—gardening, mental health, and yoga philosophy—led me to write FINDING THE PLOT, a story of kindness and humour in which sparks of magic exist in the unlikeliest of places.
My intention was to create an easily accessible gateway to the Bhagavad Gita, leaning into the cosy philosophy and accessible quest for meaning of contemplative healing fiction. I’ve retained the eighteen-chapter format of the source text and included quotes and lyrical sections to reinforce the point that the dialogue between Krishna and Arjuna on the theme of dharma, three thousand years ago, is still relevant today.
Noelle Riggott lives in the Peak District of England. She studied English and American Literature at the University of East Anglia, and is a member of Jericho Writers.
Embark, Issue 24, April 2026
Embark 