The Rich Vegetarian

An Examined Life

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Tag: romance (page 1 of 3)

Summer

It was a summer romance, borne out of heat, dust, and sweat. Watered by tears, some happy-sweet, and some salty with regret. Naturally, it all began in a garden.

Ammu’s backyard felt more like a graveyard to her. Wild and weedy, overgrown and dry, looking a tad forlorn and neglected… Just like her, she thought. Spring would come, and buds would flower. But she wasn’t sure the garden would really change all that much, come spring or summer. It felt lacking in a theme, or purpose. Like her? She was forty, and she wondered, when will this theme descend? What form will it take? A man, a job… a new garden? Some days, she would step out into the dawn and gaze at the inky blue sky, marveling at its beauty and depth. There was a nameless feeling, a sensation she felt in her breath, her mind… a sense of quiet that felt purposeful, not accidental. Yes, that quietness was absolutely the purpose. But what did a garden have to do with it? Sure, she could pull out the weeds, prune the fig and pomegranate trees, plant milkweed and pray for the monarch butterflies to descend, and so on. Perhaps she would plant peonies this time. If the garden was the outer manifestation of her inner space, she had just one word for it: undesirable. Ok, two words: undesirable, unattractive.

She glanced over at her neighbor’s backyard. It looked tidy, well looked after. But it was an easy backyard. It was mostly flat, a gentle undulation at places. There was ample shade from two pecan trees, and not a weed in sight. Her neighbor was Irfan, and she hardly saw him in the backyard. Maybe he had a gardener, or at least someone to pull out the weeds. Silly, she chided herself. Most people employ a lawn service for their yard. To keep the grass pretty and green, to destroy the weeds, and to keep things generally non-controversial.

I am tired, she decided.

Irfan had no desire to maintain a backyard garden or grow flowers. Life was hard enough to get through. Why take on an additional burden? Flowers are high-maintenance, vegetables need to be inspected for bugs and worms. He liked to keep things neat. So what if this piece of land lay useless, simply drinking weed killer and grass fertilizer? It was a good reflection of everything inside, he sometimes thought. His home was basic, his life he tried to keep basic, and his garden simply toed the line. Some days, he wished he had planted more fruit trees. They demanded little, grew tall and strong. And he liked the feeling of warm comfort they exuded. They had a solidity that his life lacked. And he tried to bask in their radiant stability as best as he could.

He saw Ammu from the corner of his eye, and wondered how she managed her large backyard. It was a piece of art, junk art. Instantly he felt guilty. Who was he to go judging others’ homes and backyards? At least, she was invested in her “garden.” At least, she had weeds. It showed that there was an intention there, some semblance of design, even if it had gone nowhere. There was expression, a level of authenticity that he sometimes envied. It had character, wild and weary. Like her, he wondered.

They sometimes ran into each other while stepping out to get the mail. She had a warm, comfortable, and comforting look about her. Her hair was a profusion of grey but her face always looked young, curious. It was an odd mix, he thought. He wondered how old she was. He had a vague idea about her work. He knew that it involved books, research… maybe a librarian? Is that a real job, he wondered? Guilty again.

One day, he caught her looking despondently at her garden. He wondered if he should offer help. Maybe he could pass her his lawn service’s information.

But she didn’t want any of that, he realized. She wanted a real garden, one with bees and butterflies and birds and bugs. She wanted to harvest figs in late spring and pomegranates in fall. She had dreams of eating strawberries off the vine. She wanted to plant a pair of blueberry bushes, because as any self-respecting gardener knows, they go in pairs. Else, no berries.

Ammu wondered what caused Irfan to come to his side of the fence and speak with her. She was happy to talk, in any case. He let slip that his job had gotten busy over the last month or so. What do you do, she asked. I am a Tai Chi instructor, he said. She couldn’t have been more surprised. He smiled at her face. What did you think, he asked. I have no idea… maybe a consultant, a tax accountant? He was amused. It meant nothing. It wasn’t a good or a bad thing. It was just the idea she had about him and his work. So, what’s behind the busy schedule, she asked. He said that he’d started teaching Tai Chi to veterans, and it was turning out to be an exhausting process. He came home more tired than usual. He understood that it wasn’t only about the additional work but also about the energy in the room. People hold pain in all sorts of places, he added. She nodded. It was an affirmation of empathy, understanding. I know what you mean, she silently said.

What about your garden? Ahh, it is making me sad. I have to do something about it.

Can I help?

Thanks.

And so it began. It was a shared project, a collaboration. She wondered if she had been a little too eager, or seemed a bit too happy with his offer to help. She hated for him, or anyone else, to think her needy or helpless. She appreciated the help, she absolutely did. She had a bunch of dreams for the garden. At least, they were far clearer than the dreams she had for her life.

It felt audacious, almost stupid to have lofty dreams for her life. She had enthusiasm but lacked the drive. She felt energetic but not energized. Sometimes she wondered if he could see through her emptiness. She hoped she wasn’t that transparent. And he seemed to have a bit of a knowing look these days. She wondered what that was about. Maybe she’d dare ask. She felt curious about him, his back story, his family. He lived alone but he had friends who came over on weekends. Some Saturday mornings, she’d see cars parked in his driveway. Busy and popular, good for you, she often thought. Back then, she didn’t even know his entire name. Now she did. It was good having him in the garden, in her garden. They worked hard and consulted gardening plans. She wondered if she should offer to help him in his garden. But he seemed to be content pouring his energy and ideas into hers. And she didn’t want to appear overenthusiastic. She didn’t want to scare him off.

The garden took beautiful shape and form. As summer progressed, the days grew in length and heat and humidity. Everything was big, bright and shiny, bugs included. She had taken to eating salads for lunch and dinner. The thought of turning the gas on and cooking an actual meal was intolerable. She also began experimenting with herb lemonades. One day, she’d add a spring of rosemary, a couple of pinches of crushed lavender another day. She took to steeping lime and citrus slices in carafes of cool water, bringing them out at the end of a gardening session. He even joined her for a salad lunch one day. He’d brought over an old patio set and set it up for her. They lunched to the buzzing of bees and summer insect orchestras. She chopped an avocado and a cucumber, two ripe tomatoes and a head of romaine lettuce. Threw in some dried olives, basil, and a lime and olive oil dressing. It felt light yet substantial. And there was always lemonade.

An easy comfort descended on them. There wasn’t much to say or discuss. She decided that she liked the silence. He decided that he preferred to hear her speak. She asked questions about Tai Chi. She’d been wanting to take a class for a while. He was right about her job. She was a librarian but she also had a research project going on at the university. He imagined that she must spend her days discussing and arguing ideas and concepts and theories and so on. Perhaps that’s why working in the garden felt so comforting. Perhaps the simplicity was what soothed her, the daily rhythms of the sun and rain, the bee and bug orchestra, the planting and watering and mulching and monitoring.

One day, she was stung by a vicious weed. She hated it so intensely at that moment; it surprised her. It was stupid, so stupid. She should have worn gloves. She should have cut it off. She had no business grasping it. Such a naive, stupid gardener. The tears sprang up so quick that she was embarrassed. I have zero tolerance to pain. I am a grown woman who cannot handle a weed. Suddenly she thought she’d burst into tears. He came close and picked tiny thorns off her arm.

It’s okay, Ammu. We will use gloves. Let me do it.

She sniffed, realizing that he already knew. She was crying big tears, and he saw it. He smiled gently.

A garden is a bit of a miracle. Sure, you can plant and water and fertilize. And yes, fruits show up. Many are expected, some are wholly unexpected. Ammu’s garden gave birth to summer sweetness, ripe and luscious fruits for the birds, pale pink milkweed for the butterflies. Aphids feasted on orange marigolds while a persistent squash vine borer ate into the zucchini plants. But friendship and love followed right after. Verdant salads and tart lemonade were food and drink for two souls who had been searching for a while. It was sweet and tender, it was difficult to describe, and it needed no name. It was the perfect summer fruit, bursting with juice and sweetness. It attracted bugs and bees, even a doe with her two little fawns. It got the fireflies abuzz as the bedroom lights flickered off late night. Coffee and tea grounds went into the burgeoning compost bin. The grass grew rapidly, yellow flowers burst forth into radiant bloom. The long days of summer melted into warm and glowing nights of light and humming cicadas. It was hot and humid. The sheets were cotton, linen, light grey and comfortable. She discarded the quilts and the duvet. Everything felt unnecessary, superfluous.

I have no need, I am so full, I am so huge and big, she thought. I have no words.

Scotland

A couple of years ago, my husband and I visited the United Kingdom for a weeklong vacation. We stopped at London to meet P’s aunt and cousin. I also had the chance to meet a dear friend whom I hadn’t seen in well over a decade. We walked around the city, taking all manner of public transport to get around. It was a lovely day, and we ate, walked, and talked a lot.

Two days later, we headed to Scotland where I proceeded to fall in love with everything.

I must explain what led us to Scotland, and Isle of Skye, specifically. I am a huge fan of Scottish author Alexander McCall Smith. I love almost everything the man writes. His “La’s Orchestra Saves the World” feels a bit like the story of my life; it is likely my all-time favorite book. McCall Smith has created a bunch of memorable characters, and one of my favorites is Isabel Dalhousie. She is a mother, wife, philosopher, editor, detective, and a lifelong do-gooder. Isabel labors long and hard over the moral implications of everything she does, and yes, I mean EVERYTHING. She ponders over the ethical implications of overfishing (“do we owe fish to future generations?”); she broods over the fact that she is a wealthy woman who can afford a full-time housekeeper.

Isabel is incapable of letting even a single act of injustice, however minor, pass unnoticed; she cannot but do something to right it, anything. And ever so often, her well-intentioned acts land her in messy/unpleasant situations. But that does not deter Isabel. Her heart bleeds for every individual suffering on the planet, and she feels “moral proximity” with everyone who crosses her path, including a wild fox who haunts her garden and plucks out flower bulbs. Sincere to the core, Isabel is half-American, a gentle mother and loving wife, a lifelong devotee of philosophy and classical music and cryptic crosswords… what’s not to love about her? I must confess, though… sometimes I lose patience with her. I find myself getting exasperated with her benefactor tendencies. Back off, Isabel. It isn’t always your business.

Isabel lives in Merchiston Crescent, Edinburgh, and one of her investigations takes her to the Isle of Skye… And that explains why we visited Scotland. Plus, I love the name “Skye.”

We spent a day in sunny gorgeous Edinburgh, then boarded a tour bus to Skye. It was a three-day tour where driver Nick doubled up as a tour guide. And he was one helluva excellent fantastic tour guide. He brought Scotland to life for a bus of tourists, all visiting from places as far as India, Korea, Canada, China, and United States. I think we collectively fell in love with Nick, and Skye, and Scotland.

Nick told us stories of clan rivalries, massacres (“No hawkers or Campbells”), Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobites, William “Braveheart” Wallace, and more. He told us why he didn’t wear kilts often (truth: you don’t wear underwear with a kilt), and that he wasn’t such a big fan of haggis (the vegetarian version is fairly decent too). Nick had a special Skye playlist that he played all through the trip, and it featured Gaelic music that touched my heart in a secret, lonely way. I just couldn’t get over the pipes and their melancholy, and they provided a fitting soundtrack to our trip driving through the brooding Scottish landscape with its countless hidden lochs and lilac bracken-laden lunar landscapes. Scotland is a dreamy, magical place that appealed to my inner romantic in a strangely pensive way.

Scattered like gold, from Dunkeld to Aberfeldy
The seasons unfold, that’s the things we love
Walk through the field, in the frost of a winter morning
Nature revealed, that’s the things we love

No, don’t ask us to take what we can give her
She lives inside us and we know her well
There’s no right reason to fear or to forgive her.

Standing alone, on top of the Ben-A-Caly
Great rocking stone, that’s the things we love
Catching the eye, of the owl in the early morning
Great buzzards cry, that’s the things we love

No, don’t ask us to take what we can give her
She lives inside us and we know her well
There’s no right reason to fear or to forgive her
It’s so easy, it’s just the things we love

(From Dougie Maclean’s “Perthshire Amber – Fourth Movement”)

The tour ended and we were back in lovely Edinburgh for a day before we had to head back to London. We spent the morning clambering up Arthur’s Seat, a hill rising above Edinburgh to a height of 822 ft. As we rested a bit drinking in the fabulous views, a British group came up a winding, narrow path. A gentleman in a pink jacket seemed to be the troupe leader, and he exclaimed, “Where is Arthur? Surely he should have been here, welcoming us with a drink.” We also spent a few joyful hours at the National Scottish Gallery gawking at beautiful art.

We took the train to London the following morning. Spent a day with family, and then it was time to fly back home to Atlanta, sigh.

My heart felt full yet heavy. In a matter of days, I had developed a connection with Scotland and I felt sad leaving. Language and landscapes, music and melodies and memories of a glorious past, castles and cliffs and rocky shores and faerie lakes — I’d miss all of them. I’d miss Nick and his good cheer, his “yes, my dear?” and “Huzzah and Hurrah” so bad. Had I been younger, I’d have happily and miserably fallen in love with Nick/Scotland (definitely conflating the two) and cried my eyes out all the way across the Atlantic. Thankfully, none of that happened. I hope Nick is happy in Edinburgh, and I am certainly happy here in Atlanta.

As I savor the sublime pleasure of a gorgeous Fall afternoon here in the South, watching the sun illuminate my home and the fruit trees in our backyard, I cannot help but dream of Scotland, and plot when I can go back next.