There was a car
waiting to take them to a resort in South Goa. The older man got in front, the
other three behind. They did not speak.
That remained more or
less the same throughout their four-night stay at the resort. The man got a
cottage for himself and the others shared one. They did not talk much, that is,
to the man. In their cottage, the mother and the two kids shared their anger,
frustration, sadness and, even if they were not keen to admit it, joy too.
They took the man
with them for all meals. Apart from the unnatural silence at their table, they
looked like a normal well-settled family. At other times, the man preferred to be
by himself in his cottage. He followed the routine dictated by the memory
cards. Morning and evening, one of the kids took him for a long walk on the
beach. On the third day, they hired a car and went on a day-trip further south.
The kids wanted to explore some beaches. The odd couple got off near a hiking
trail. They hiked up to a hill-top, taking it slowly, silently.
The view from there
was sublime. They sat on the ground, shared a bottle of water, had sandwich.
“Do you remember our
first time here?” she asked.
He looked irritated and
seemed to hold back some angry retort. He did not reply for a long while.
“All I know is that I
wouldn’t want to be here and see this without…” he said, staring ahead. Again,
he seemed to be holding back some thought or words or maybe he was
uncomfortable completing that statement with a formal “company” or the informal
“you”.
He half-turned
towards her. She turned towards him. He looked at her hand. He raised his hand
but lowered it immediately.
“I am sorry,” he
said. There were tears in his eyes.
“Me too,” she said.
She turned to stare at the abyss in front.
…
Six months before that
trip, the daughter had received a letter from him, after a gap of twenty years.
Twenty years back, it had been an apologetic scrawl telling her to be strong
and to remember that he would always be there for her and her brother. For
twenty years that promise remained just words. He was not there for them. This new
letter was more formal, quite matter-of-fact and unsentimental.
My
dear daughter, I have been to a doctor. It seems I am losing my memory. I would
like to meet you. Could you please come to this address? Your loving Appa. His
residential address was given below.
She did not tell her
mother or even her brother. She was not sure about their response. She expected
anger or obstinate denial. She did not want remorse or sorrow either. She was
not even sure what she herself felt. For a month, she did nothing.
Then, one Sunday, she
went to his one-bedroom apartment. He opened the door reluctantly and stared at
her blankly. She handed him his note. He read it. He let her in. He prepared a
fresh pot of tea and opened a packet of Marie biscuits and placed it on a plate.
They sat in front of the TV. An old British crime video was playing, one of
P.D. James’ Dalgliesh mysteries.
She tried talking to
him. But that seemed to irritate him. They remained silent.
He opened his pouch
of memory cards and flipped through them.
“I am sorry,” he said
softly a little while later. She turned to him to say something. But he stopped
her by raising a finger to his lips. “I can’t understand what you say. Worse, I
won’t remember what you say.” He paused. “I do not remember writing that letter.
But I seem to have placed a memory card in this pouch to remind me what I
should do if you turned up.”
He stood up, went and
picked up an envelope placed on top of the TV and handed it over to her. It was
dated two weeks earlier.
My
dear daughter, I am running out of time. Can I ask you for one last favour? I
would like to go with my family on a last trip. Let it be like the trip we
enjoyed last. Your loving Appa.
She did not protest
or agree. She was with him for an hour.
She made three such,
silent, visits before she picked up the courage to tell her mother and brother.
Her brother was furious. Her mother was strangely calm, in front of them.
She continued with
her silent visits. It was always more or less the same, the tea, the biscuits,
the same PD James show or another like it, and the weird companionable silence.
Somehow, through that silence, they came to an understanding. She would not
visit him too frequently and never give or take more than that hour. That
seemed to suit him.
It took her mother
and brother two months to agree on the trip. She made the arrangements for the
trip, sent the ticket to him with the note for his memory cards pouch. They met
on the train and the other two joined them at Ernakulam.
…
He was a careful man.
For a year, he had planned and made arrangements. His last will and testament
was ready. He read up on the subject of finance for those in their final years.
There was very little material on the section of society who suffered from
dementia or memory-loss. He talked to bankers and set up a trust to manage his
considerable savings and investments. Everything would go after his demise to
the family he had last met twenty years back. He planned for his final days. He
tried to put in a clause about packing him off to the Netherlands or some
merciful place where a clinic would give him a quick assisted release. He
learned that it was still a grey legal area.
He then made
arrangements for a life without memory. He sold his big house and settled with
minimal stuff in a more manageable apartment. He prepared his pouch of memory
cards. He placed pictures and reminders around the apartment to help him with
his daily routine. He found an agency, their services did not come cheap, to
take care of cleaning the apartment, delivering provisions and the occasional
takeaway. They even took him on long drives once a week. He did not want any
company. He did not want anyone to talk to him. He kept a diary. He knew others
would pry and read it. He wrote for them.
My
beloved wife, daughter and son, It is possible you have already figured out what
I write here and you despise me even more. I had to feign the loss of memory.
Yes, I was selfish. But, I could not think of another way to be with you all
before I go. Any other way would have had us bogged down in history. I could
have left without telling you. But I have to tell you that I was always with
you. Loving you always...
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