Hadzina – The Lady of the Garden

They called her “Hadzina” — a word that, in Greek-Cypriot culture, evokes dignity, spiritual grace, and quiet authority. It was not her real name, but the name that her life had earned.

Grandma Maritsa had barely attended a few years of primary school, yet she possessed something far more powerful: the gift of storytelling. Her voice, steady and warm, could carry you far beyond the walls of her humble home. You never got tired of listening to her. She would speak of fairy tales, of storms that shook the village, of harvests and hard winters, always with a sparkle in her eyes and a subtle smile curling at the corners of her lips.

But more than anything else, she would speak of her garden.

Her hands, weathered and strong, carried the scent of mint, basil, and soil. She would rise with the sun, tie a faded scarf around her head, and step barefoot into the earth. Her garden was small — just a patch behind her stone house — but to her, it was a kingdom. In that little kingdom, she grew parsley, spring onions, zucchinis, and pumpkins that seemed to swell with pride under her care.

The time of year when the pumpkins flourished was her favorite. Their golden color, thick vines, and curving stems delighted her like grandchildren. She would stroke the broad leaves as though they were silk. She would bend over, examine each flower, whispering to them like old friends.

“The pumpkin is the queen of the garden,” she’d say with a quiet laugh, “and I am her Archontissa.”

She never boasted, never raised her voice. But in the garden, she was transformed. She moved with the calm of someone who knew their place in the world — not as someone elevated above it, but rooted deeply within it.

Inside her home, things were simple. A small oil lamp sat on a shelf beside a jar of homemade jam. There were cracks in the walls and the ceiling leaked in winter, but the house always smelled of thyme, firewood, and slow-cooked beans. There was always a warm chair by the window and a cup of sage tea waiting for a guest. For her, hospitality was not a matter of wealth, but of heart.

I remember watching her as a child. I would follow her through the rows of green, helping her carry bundles of herbs, listening to her hum as she worked. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now — she was teaching me something sacred: that peace is found in simple things. That nobility is not a title, but a way of living.

She rarely spoke of pain, though I know her life was not easy. She had lived through war, widowhood, and long years of poverty. But she carried those wounds like roots beneath the soil — hidden, but holding her steady.

When she passed away, the garden withered for a while. No one tended to it as she did. The pumpkins never grew as large again. But the scent of her mint still lingers when the wind is right. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I hear her voice in the leaves.

We called her Hadzina. She was never rich. Never famous. But she ruled her little world with gentleness and strength. And she taught us — not through lectures, but through daily life — that greatness is not measured by how loudly you speak, but by how quietly you love.