My Grandmother and My Vegetables

 My Grandmother and My Vegetables

A Love Story between a Boy and His Grandmother

                    Today was the day my grandmother died, and yet I still look in repugnance at broccoli. 

The first time she came here to Los Angeles, her typical Indian lifestyle had come with her, and the cultural diffusions between us were visible. I was a young, 16 year old junkaholic, and would conventionally be seen stuffing my round, chubby face full of processed foods coursing with grease and oil. Upon learning of my habits, the dismay present in her expressions was blatant, and she had hoped that her healthy indulgences would rub off on me sooner or later, fanatical about eradicating my unhealthy lifestyle. But she was never able to.

From the moment she came, she would mix in broccoli, asparagus, spinach and bell peppers into every meal I consumed, and with every meal I ate, cucumbers, lettuce, and beetroot into every sandwich, and olives, carrots, and radishes into every pizza, and the more and more she irked me, the more my blood would boil and my patience would dwindle. Why couldn’t she just leave me alone? How do the decisions I make in my life affect her? She had claimed that if I went on with this much longer, it would take a toll on my health, and that soon I would end up in the hospital like she once did. But I didn’t care, and looking back on it, I definitely should have.

A few weeks into her arrival here, she started to show symptoms of heart problems, at first subtle, but then growing more and more acute. She would always sit down, pat herself on the chest, and complain that her heart was failing. I never thought much of it though, and just brushed it away like I have everything else in my life. However, my inability to grasp the severity of the matter at the time came to bite me, when one day we took her to the doctor and it was confirmed- she had arrhythmias, and would have to be put under medical attention.

Long, desolate weeks passed by, and I would now and then see my parents walking back and forth in our hallway, whispering under their breaths, anxiety in their every move. I had assumed at the time that my grandma would be fine, and because I didn't care much for her, my life continues as normal. Anyway, wasn’t she the one who had tried to feed me vegetables? Who cared what would happen to her. She never really cared for me, and if she did, she wouldn’t constantly try to ruffle my appetite. Until a few weeks later, on one fateful night, the call was given. My grandma’s time had come, and she passed away.

This hit me like a rock, and although she was not close to me, it still tugged on my heartstrings and plunged me into a cold basin of water. She, the one who had always told me to eat healthy, the one who had always tried to be a role model in my diet, and the one who had put in the maximum effort to keep robust, had departed out of heart problems? How could this be? Maybe she was right, maybe my deleterious diet would be the end of me. No it couldn’t be, was what my delusional mindset kept saying.

But the gaping hole that had been withdrawn from my heart weighed me down day by day, and the nagging, vexatious modus operandi of my grandmother that had been a part of me for the last month was something I had never thought I would miss. But I did miss it, even more than I missed my old habits of eating. And it is sad that the death of the one who had truly loved me, the death of my own grandmother, was what it had to take to show me the kryptonite that was growing out of my own habits. I missed my grandmother, and if it wasn't already blatant from the weeks after weeks at end I spent sobbing into my arms, then it was shown by my deteriorating enthusiasm and lack of fervor.

So as the years went by, my habits started to change. My diet incorporated leafy green and unseasoned foods, and the oleaginous meals that had once been a way of my life was now a thing of yore. And thus the grandmother who I had disregarded, the grandmother who had nurtured me and tried her best to care for me despite the rancor I had given her was responsible for the best change that I had ever encountered in my entire life.

So, reflecting back on everything that has happened consequently, and after truly comprehending the love my grandmother had for me, I concede.