My grandmother’s quiet melancholy
My grandmother cares for her kitchen garden as lovingly as if it were a beloved child. In summer, she stays outside, tending to her plants for as long as her strength allows. And when she returns, she exults over her garden from the window of her room. When I visit, I am always sure of a warm reception and many complaints about the weeds that persist in growing, despite her zealous efforts.
In the recent past, however, a certain melancholy has come over her and affected all she did. She appears to me a remote, rather grim figure, looking out into her precious garden forlornly and despairing over the weeds that flourish when even the hardiest plants have withered away in winter’s chill.
I have resented her garden sometimes, or rather the love and devotion she showered upon it. All my life, I have seen her toiling away at this small piece of land, with no regard for anything beyond it.
When I visited my grandmother last autumn, her garden was barren. Weeds throve unchecked, and rats feasted on the surviving vegetation. I went in to ask her about it, but the look on her face stopped me. She had grown pale and thin; her face was set in weary resignation. For the first time in my life, I feared for her.
I tried cheering her up the whole time I stayed there. After a point, it all seemed hopeless. It was as though ten winters had descended upon her; she would not talk. I had not the skill, or perhaps the patience, to coax her out of this reticence. So I took her outside every day, carefully steering her away from her ruined garden, in hopes that the sunshine might effect a cure.
I often spoke to her about my grand plans for her recovery. I would hold her hand tightly in mine and tell her all we would do together if only she were happy again. She would ignore me entirely for the duration of these speeches and stare into the distance. Now and then, I would catch the barest quirk of her lip at one of my especially extravagant promises. I treasured these smiles, even if they were at my expense, because they were proof that something of her old spirit still remained.
There were neighbours and friends who came by and said that my grandmother’s “illness” was natural in her age. The only thing for it, according to them, was to let her mope. After all, only death can await old age; purpose and pleasure go out of life by then.
I couldn’t reconcile this well-meant, hateful advice with what I knew of my grandmother’s life. Her youth had been sacrificed to caring for her children and waiting on her husband and in-laws, and she spent half her life in privation and self denial. She had poured all that was left of her into the garden. It is her life’s work, her legacy in a way that I, her granddaughter, could never hope to be.
That visit, I came to understand her better. The hours we passed together, in complete silence on her end and endless monologuing on mine, made her a realer, more sympathetic person to me. I stopped regarding her selfishly and childishly only in relation to myself but began to see her as a whole person in her own right,
She is better now, or rather less depressed than she was, but it is still a challenge to make her talk. My grandmother goes outside on her own on good days and often walks towards her garden out of habit. She always remembers just in time and hastily retraces her steps. Once, I saw her in her room, peeping at her garden. She sighed when she saw I had noticed and angrily wiped her tears.
Her garden remains deserted, but I retain hope that I may see its greenery once more. Meanwhile, the weeds grow denser and the rats fatter everyday.
By: Fadheelah Riyaz