My mother has a garden in her backyard. If you were to visit, you may try to argue that it isn’t a garden at all, it is just plants, haphazardly lining a modestly small courtyard. But what I have grown to learn is that my mom has this beautiful ability to turn hard concrete into the most nourishing living.
My mother was born in India. The second youngest of five. She had a life she loved there. She worked, she had friends, she had family. When she talks about her life there, there’s a unique smile that lines her face, one tinged with a pained, bittersweet nostalgia I’ll never truly know. What I do know now is that it was never her intention to immigrate to the United States, but I also know that she loves the life she has created here, despite it all.
Moving here was no easy task for her. My dad dreamed of living in America, and having gone to a British boarding school, he was armed with better English and a less prominent accent, putting him many steps ahead of my mom in the unforgiving game we call assimilation. My mom had a harder time, constantly being asked to change who she was, how she spoke, how she lived. As a child, I hated her unwillingness to change certain behaviors: the hoarding of random items, asking neighbors for fruit from their fruit trees, pronouncing things incorrectly. I remember my sister and I used to laugh when my mom mispronounced “congratulations." Only when I got older did I see the cruelty in mocking my mom when she simply wanted to celebrate me. And worse than that, the pain she must have felt in seeing her own children join the choir of Americans who bullied her to change. This isn’t an abnormal story by any means, this is the plight of the first generation experience.
What my mom didn’t change was the embodiment of the beautiful collective culture she was raised in. The one where a neighbor isn’t someone you fear, but someone you care after, you feed, you check in on. My dad always found my mom’s friendliness with neighbors a punchline, her unwillingness to be individualistic a frustration. And in my youth, so did I. But now I find it inspiring.
You see, my mom is not set in her ways, she is set in her spirit.
My mom, even at the age of 70, is the type of person who will take care of her neighbor’s cats, for weeks on end, despite not being too keen on feline companionship. She will give food to a neighbor who is recovering from surgery, even if it was food meant for herself. My mom knows the mailman’s name, his wife’s name, and even some of the struggles he’s experiencing in life. She knows what grade the teens next door are in, what tests they are studying for, and cares about their safety, as if they are her own. There is no one she won’t befriend, there is no one she won’t mother. She treats everyone with kindness. When she recounts her day to me, it always consists of something she did for someone else, not because it was a selfless act she wants accolades for, but because the act of caring runs deep in her blood, it is her life source, it is her own social security. She has retired from work but she has made kindness her lifelong job.
Sometimes on the phone, my mom will express a hardship that she is going through, but she will sandwich it in-between two unrelated statements, a defense mechanism of a silent sufferer, of course, and she will always finish the statement with, “but I can’t complain, life is good.” We know better. Life is not always good. Even the most privileged, often the most privileged, can find something to complain about. But my mom doesn’t let anything get to her, she breeds positivity. She has expressed that she feels no need to be negative because life is too short, it does not serve her anymore, because if she were to start collecting the negatives and dwell on it, what good would that do for her? She has tapped into a mindfulness that people take decades studying and hardly ever perfecting, but for her, someone who has gone through countless loss and hardships, it is out of necessity. I’ve seen my mom upset, but I’ve never seen her angry, and that is an important distinction. She doesn’t let anger get to her, she doesn’t let hate get to her, she welcomes anyone — and I mean anyone — with welcome arms. In that sense, she is the definition of a mother and perhaps that is the very reason why the ultimate mother, mother nature, responds so well to her.
Which brings me back to the garden. The dirt that lines the concrete patio is hardly one for cultivating. My dad wanted to plant succulents given the small space and uninspiring dirt, but my mom wanted to plant fruit trees, herbs, anything that nourishes the stomach and the soul. And so my mom took it upon herself and did just that. But her methods, I questioned. My mother, much like a squirrel, just dug the seeds, which came from the very fruits she ate, into the ground. She didn’t use a trellis or organized anything into rows, she just planted them wherever she felt fit. She would explain little tricks she used, sprinkle some concoction here, use this type of water, but they all seemed somewhat made up, old wives tales. I’ve killed enough plants to know how hard gardening can be. But, much to my surprise, her method worked. Every time I go to visit, a new plant had grown or an existing one became more bountiful. She has pomegranates, basil, tomatoes, chillies to name a few. My dad showed his annoyance at how the plants were growing, taking over, and lacking any order. He expressed his desire to landscape the backyard to what is normal and typical here, an assimilation of greenery one could say.
It’s funny, I once read that the Taj Mahal was surrounded by a bounty of fruit trees before the British came in, who then landscaped it to mirror their own.
The only explanation I can offer for the wealth of foliage and earth’s nectar growing in the corners of my parents’ backyard is a spiritual one. I am not a spiritual person, but there’s something that tells me that the earth feels my mother’s kindness, her care for others, her good. It rewards her with fruit and vegetables and herbs that grow in unlikely corners with a success I’ve never seen. It knows she will share it with people, all types of people, and not hoard it for herself. It knows she will care for it, protect it, and protect others. It knows and therefore it gives.
My mother’s garden isn’t just a collection of fruit and vegetables. It is a showcase of her heart, her soul, her beauty.
Happy birthday, mom.
I love your mom and love your writing 💕