A WORLD WITHIN

Hay House Publishers (India) Pvt. Ltd.

Muskaan Complex, Plot No.3, B-2 Vasant Kunj, New Delhi-110 070, India

Hay House Inc., PO Box 5100, Carlsbad, CA 92018-5100, USA

Hay House UK, Ltd., Astley House, 33 Notting Hill Gate, London W11 3JQ, UK

Hay House Australia Pty Ltd., 18/36 Ralph St., Alexandria NSW 2015, Australia

Hay House SA (Pty) Ltd., PO Box 990, Witkoppen 2068, South Africa

Hay House Publishing, Ltd., 17/F, One Hysan Ave., Causeway Bay, Hong Kong

Raincoast, 9050 Shaughnessy St., Vancouver, BC V6P 6E5, Canada

Email: contact@hayhouse.co.in

www.hayhouse.co.in

Copyright © 2014 Minakshi Chaudhry

The views and opinions expressed in this book are the author’s own and the facts are as reported by her. They have been verified to the extent possible, and the publishers are not in any way liable for the same.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording, nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself—which is your constitutional right—the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

ISBN 978-93-81398-76-0

Printed and bound at

Rajkamal Electric Press, Sonipat, Haryana (India)

“To all the parents and their loving children”

CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

To the best dad in the world, you have amazed us all with your dignity and the way you hold your head high even as dementia chips away pieces of your existence. Hats off to you, mom, for your grit, patience and love that you shower while taking care of him every second.

This book would not have been written without the support of many wonderful people. Rakesh, my soulmate, is of course at the top of my list, he is a blessing which I cherish. Thank you for going through the manuscript critically, and providing a lot of suggestions as I grappled with the story. I have no words to express the gratitude for your love and your rock-like support, every time, every day.

Another extraordinary blessing is my teacher and mentor, Prof. Vepa Rao. He was the first to read the manuscript. Your on-going support and encouragement motivates me to take life as it comes.

I am in awe of Ashok Chopra, the CEO and Managing Director at Hay House Publishers, India. He is my teacher too (yes, he taught me about the publishing world when I was a young twenty-year-old, pursuing a course in journalism). Despite his busy jet-setting schedule he always takes out time to be in touch and inspires you with his dynamism. If it was not for him I would not have been able to let people know this remarkable story. My heartfelt gratitude to Ashok Sir, this book came because of you.

Sanjana Roy Choudhury, my publisher, is priceless. She feels like a close friend to me now. Even while she was recuperating after a surgery she made sure the book was on schedule. Thank you, Sanjana.

Tulika Rattan, my editor, made this book as good as possible by her meticulous and painstaking editing. Thank you for being patient with me.

Thank you all at Hay House.

Special thanks to my incredible and tireless friend, Deepshikha, for typing the manuscript at odd hours with a smile on her face.

Works of Thomas DeBaggio, Eleanor Cooney and Lisa Genova made me understand in totality what does a person with dementia and the caregivers go through. I could relate to what they said instantly as I saw my father grapple with this disease. I also acknowledge the support of Alzheimer’s Association, Alzheimer’s Disease Research Centre, National Institute of Aging, Wikipedia and other Web resources. Thanks are due to Shakti Singh Chandel for filling me up on the history of Bilaspur. I credit all of them for making this story complete.

I would also like to thank Prof. Som P. Ranchan who read the manuscript in a couple of hours, boosting my confidence and gave his critical comments and pointers. Sapna and Rahul for your prompt counselling and guidance when I needed it the most.

Thanks to Jaideep Negi, chief librarian, and the entire library staff at the Himachal Pradesh Secretariat for their support and help. Special thanks to Rajinder Aggarwal of Minerva Book House, who flatters my ego by frequently telling me, ‘We are waiting for the next book’.

Many thanks to Mummy and Pita-ji, my parents-in-law, for keeping faith in me and for your ongoing trust.

My siblings Seema (you are an inspiration), Neeraj (my biggest critic, enthusiast and avid commenter), Deepak (a real charmer who knows how to get his way without lifting a finger) – you are the best that any person can have.

My thanks also go out to my extended family – Dalbir jija ji, Anu didi, Pooja, Supriya, Deepika, Chandni, Madhav and Parth.

And, of course, last but not the least, I would like to thank all my amazing and loving friends.

PROLOGUE

3 March 2012

It was just another morning. Everything seemed normal. We were all sitting in the living room. Dadoo was sipping tea. Vikram and Mala didi were reading the newspaper hoping that Dadoo too would become interested and pick it up. I was engrossed in reading a memoir I had picked up a couple of weeks ago. Mamma was trying, unsuccessfully, to engage Dadoo in a conversation. Later she left to attend a kirtan in the neighbourhood.

The four of us – Daddy, Vikram, Mala didi and I – were sitting in the lawn when Mamma returned after two hours.

Dadoo looked at Mamma blankly and then politely asked, ‘Whom do you want to meet?’

Mamma stared at Dadoo unable to comprehend what he was saying. Before she could respond he repeated, ‘Do you want to meet someone here?’

We were stunned into silence, and looked towards Dadoo. He was still looking at Mamma. Expressionless. Not even confused.

‘What are you saying? I am Asha,’ she said with pain and started whimpering.

‘Asha?’ he muttered as if trying to remember something. Trying to connect. But his face was wooden.

‘I am Asha, your wife.’ Mamma was crying by now.

‘Daddy, don’t you remember Mamma? It’s Mamma,’ said Mala didi.

But Dadoo was blank. He then got up from his chair, looked at Mamma again and then at us. He slowly went inside the house, lay down on the bed and covered his head with a bedsheet …

1

This is an unfinished story. The story of a man dying in slow motion. There are unanswered questions, lots of them. I am at loss to understand what went wrong with him and why.

He chases the mirage of his memory. His world disappears fragment by fragment as he grapples with his ‘reality’. It is not just his being, his self that disintegrates every moment, it is the universe as he knew it that fades into oblivion.

The most painful thing is that he is aware of all this.

He is seeing death; his own death, piece by piece. My heart cries for daddy, my dear Dadoo. Oh! Why?

Is life futile? Why do we suffer this agony, this pain? Is it the fruit of our actions in our previous lives? Accumulated sins? Karma? Human predicament? I have no answer.

It is a sentence whose grammar has gone wrong. There is never a full stop. The thought of a full stop, however, is scary. I shudder.

No, I am wrong. There are full stops. Every moment a part of him disappears. Forever. Names, faces, events – all vanish bit by bit.

On one end is this mesh of myriad threads we call memory and on the other end is his existence. Threads snap. Cut. A face is gone. Cut. A memory sinks in abyss. Cut. Another face, another experience. Gone forever. At times there is a flash. Something lights up. Someone calls. But all attempts to recognize fail. No relationships emerge in the fragmented mind. What is real and unreal has lost the meaning. He oscillates somewhere between being, and not being.

Memory and imagination – these are so important. These are not mere words; these are us. Like everything else, when we have memory we do not value it but when it fades, imagination disappears too and that is the end of our existence.

Dementia and Alzheimer’s are still mysteries. We just have a combination of vitamins, anti-depressants and sleep-inducing pills as a prescription – a more civilized form of chaining and locking up people.

If you have a parent with dementia and you do not want to lock him or her inside the house, the focus of your whole world shifts. More traumatic is the fact that the person you have looked up to, admired, and adored has become powerless and vulnerable. When the roles are reversed and you become the parent, you fall deep into the confusion, bitterness and unwanted responsibility.

An aching pain stings you on and on as you see your parent degenerate. This person had been your bedrock of strength, your father – the person who was always there, who was so knowledgeable and worldly wise. But you see him wither away slowly in front of you, watch his decay helplessly. It makes you angry. But you can’t help.

Not only am I seeing my father – my Dadoo – go through this transition but I have also become aware of my true self – temperamental and escapist. It makes me go berserk.

This is so unjust. But that is what it is – my Dadoo’s world …

2

12 January 2010

The Clinic

We are early; the neurologist is yet to arrive. There are a couple of other people in a reasonably big room waiting for the doctor apart from Dadoo, my husband, Rohit, and I.

Dadoo looks around, ‘Why have we come here?’

‘To see the doctor, you wanted to consult her for your forgetfulness,’ I say, smiling reassuringly.

‘Oh, yes. Is she a doctor for fading memory?’ he asks almost whispering.

‘Yes.’

‘Is this a government hospital?’ he asks.

‘It is a private clinic,’ Rohit replies.

‘Why are we here? We should have gone to the government hospital.’

‘Dadoo, she is the only one in Shimla, there is no other neurologist.’

He is surprised. ‘No one else? No government doctor!’ and then adds, ‘Is she a specialist, I mean, a good one?’

‘Yes, yes, very good,’ Rohit too assures him.

‘Okay,’ he mumbles.

It is such agony waiting in the neurologists’ clinic, not sure of what the doctor would say about your mental stability. The verdict haunts. In the beginning when you still know that something is happening to you, when you are still aware that you are a human being, it is so very dreadful to sit here and wait to know what is wrong with your mind.

I wonder how difficult it will be for Dadoo to tell the doctor that he was losing his brain. He was not just an intelligent educated man but had been professor of math for years. Is he embarrassed? Or nervous? I do not know. But I am sure he is feeling sheepish and wants to run away.

I can see him pretending that everything is fine. But perhaps that is natural. A person waiting in a neurologist’s clinic does not fit into the conventional definition of a patient; he or she looks normal. People with diseases or injuries moan, whine and complain. Dadoo looked so proper in his cream-coloured suit, tie and well-coordinated tan shoes.

He smiles whenever someone walks in. No one is aware how ruptured his brain and soul is. Physical pain is nothing as compared to this.

Our turn. We enter the doctor’s cabin. She gives an affectionate and warm smile, ‘Please sit down.’

‘This is my father-in-law. He’s having a problem with his memory; he’s forgetting things. We’ve got an MRI done and the report says that these are age-related changes but … here’s the report,’ says Rohit.

The doctor takes the report, studies it for a minute or two and then looks at Dadoo smilingly.

‘How are you, sir?’

Dadoo smiles, ‘I am fine. We were just passing by so we thought of meeting you.’

‘That is so nice of you,’ she replies.

Dadoo smiles and says, ‘I have no problem but sometimes I do not remember things.’

The doctor nods.

‘Sir, I will ask you a few more questions? May I?’

‘Questions,’ he laughs and then looks at the doctor amused. This is all a pretension, I can feel that he is under lot of pressure.

She smiles. ‘Yes sir, so here we start. Can you tell me where we are sitting at the moment, I mean the place?’

Dadoo laughs as if this is the most stupid question and then mumbles, ‘What place is this?’

‘Dadoo, you know what place this is,’ I say my heart missing a beat as I look into his worried eyes.

‘Shimla,’ he says. I heave a sigh of relief.

‘Where do you live?’ the doctor asks.

‘Solan.’

‘Very good. What year are we in?’

‘2010.’

‘Which month?’

‘Month … ummm …’

‘Date? What is the date today?’ the doctor asks.

Silence.

‘What is the day today?’

Silence.

‘I mean … Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday?’ asks the doctor patiently.

Dadoo looks blank.

‘How many children do you have?’

‘Four,’ pat comes the reply.

‘Good,’ says the doctor.

‘Spell water backwards?’

He concentrates and slowly spells it out.

‘Okay, sir, now let us play a small game. I will give you three words to remember and then I will ask you about them after some time. Please do try and remember them. The words are chashma (glasses), kutta (dog) aur gaadi (and vehicle). Will you please repeat?’

‘Chashma, kutta, gaadi,’ Dadoo says quickly. He is back to his amused self now.

‘Yes, sir. That is very good. So tell me how you feel. Is there any other problem that bothers you?’ She then asks him about his sleep patterns, food habits and other minute details. Then after some time she returns to the three words, ‘Sir, could you repeat the three words I requested you to remember?’

‘Yes,’ Dadoo says and then tries hard to jog his memory. ‘One was gaadi, I think, and the other two … I do not remember,’ he mumbles. His hands are trembling now.

‘Please try again. Think,’ the doctor says

He gives a hollow laugh, ‘No, I do not remember.’

I can sense stress in his voice.

‘Okay, not to worry. Let us do some small calculations. Will you tell me how much is 200 minus 7?’

He instantly answers, ‘193’.

And then it goes on.

‘193 minus 7?’

‘186.’

‘186 minus 7.’

‘179.’

‘Very good, now count backwards starting from hundred.’

Dadoo starts, ‘99, 98, 97, 96, 95 …’

‘Good,’ says the doctor.

As I watch him making light of the doctor’s methodology, I see acute stress in his demeanour and a keen desire to get the answers right.

The doctor writes down a prescription and hands it over, ‘He has dementia and it may or may not be Alzheimer’s. We will have to put him on medication and these medicines will have to be changed frequently till we arrive at the right doze and correct combination. Therefore follow-ups are very important. The medicines may make him depressed or hyper-active at times; it varies from individual to individual. All respond differently. You have to keep a watch and give me feedback on any abrupt variation.’

With a heavy heart I ask, ‘Will he improve?’

She shrugs, ‘There is a thirty per cent chance that we may be able to arrest the decline and thirty per cent to slow the progress.’

Then the doctor asks me, ‘Has he control over bowels and bladder?’

I nod vigorously, ‘Absolutely! Nothing wrong there.’

I glance at the prescription slip; I read Dadoo’s score – 3/5. Three out of five, not bad. Or is it?

He is on medication. It is a heavy day, full of strain and tension for all of us.

I get frantic calls from my siblings. Vikram, my elder brother calls from Chandigarh; Mala didi, elder sister, from Goa; and Deepak, the youngest of us all, from Singapore. Everyone wants to know what will happen now. Mamma is laden with grief and she repeatedly asks, ‘Is it necessary to put him on medicines? Can’t we do something else?’

We all know that there is no option.

To deviate our minds from this sudden reality check, which none of us was fully prepared for, we decided to focus on the goodness in life and chose to celebrate it. My parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary is due in about a month. We plan a bash so that he can meet all his extended family.

3

17 February 2010

My fiftieth wedding anniversary: Pages from Dadoo’s Diary

There are so many people. Should I call them people or apne log, my relatives! I keep forgetting the occasion. Well, well, it is definitely a celebration of some sort. Oh! Asha and I have completed fifty years of our marriage. She is looking beautiful. But I am not at ease. Why do these celebrations have to be in a five-star hotel? It will cost a lot. But then, who listens to me now. Children rule.

Though, thank God, my children are the best and most loving; I am so proud of all of them.

To whom do these faces belong? Oh, this is Maya, my sister. And is that her daughter-in-law or daughter? And yes, my nephew, Sanjay, who is hearing and speech impaired. Are these small girls his daughters? There are so many others. No, I must not fret. I will just have to be calm and composed. Asha has said so. Let the children enjoy themselves. Yeh unka kaam hai (this is their work), they wanted to celebrate our golden anniversary, but then how can it be their work? Wasn’t I the one that always worked, Wasn’t I the one that everyone looked up to? Wasn’t I the one that made decisions in the family?

When did this all change? Yesterday? A month ago? A year ago? How can they decide on their own what to do and what not to do, they don’t have the experience of life behind them. But who is going to argue with Asha?

Whatever, I am happy seeing all my family here. My niece, Aadarsh from Mumbai is here too! And what is the name of the other one, Alka! Yes. After so many years we are together.

I don’t know how to respond to these people’s greetings. I don’t remember them. I will just have to smile and nod. But there are so many people here. Two hundred, three hundred, can’t say. Do I know them all?

How did they all assemble here, it must be either Rewa’s or Vikram’s plan. Is it something special? Why are they here? Why am I dressed in a suit and Asha in a sari?

‘Daddy, Mummy, come, let’s cut the cake,’ says Vikram, my elder son, happily giving his mom a peck on her cheek.

Cake! Why is there a cake? What sort of function is this? I look at Asha to show me the way. I think she understands because she smiles, takes my elbow and whispers, ‘Come, let’s cut the cake.’ I am guided to the table. I try to smile, conflicting emotions arise in my heart; I don’t like all this drama.

Oh my god! Is this a cake? It is a huge snow-white and golden thing, three layers atop each other. Now I just want it to be over and not think and analyze what is happening and why is it happening. ‘Achcha, okay, so we have to cut the cake,’ I mumble, smiling tensely and again looking for guidance towards Asha.

‘Yes, yes, Dadoo, though first you have to exchange rings,’ announces my younger daughter, Rewa.

‘Rings!’ I mumble, helplessly. What are they talking about?

‘Of course, the rings. Wedding rings!’ says Asha cheerily.

I am still at a loss. Whose wedding? What rings? And then I read on the cake, ‘50th Wedding Anniversary’. Oh yes, now I remember, it is our wedding anniversary. I am delighted. I lovingly look at Asha who has given me all love, affection and support. What a lucky man I have been. I am blissfully happy as I look at all the smiling people around me, my own people, my relatives, friends and my children.

‘Where are the rings?’ asks Deepu, my younger son.

‘Rings! What rings?’ I ask surprised, the smile wiped off my face. I have forgotten again.

‘Oh Daddy, the rings you have to exchange today on your fiftieth anniversary,’ says Vikram hugging me and kissing my forehead.

‘Yes, yes,’ I mumble.

‘Here they are,’ says Mala, my eldest child.

I look around, every one is smiling, so naturally I smile back.

‘Okay, who goes first?’ I ask bewildered.

There are loud guffaws.

‘Of course, Daddy, you go first, and then Mamma,’ declares Vikram.

I am handed the ring by someone, there is too much confusion, I look at Asha lost and though I love her I cannot express it; this is all so alien to me.

‘Wait, wait,’ I hear someone say out loud, ‘don’t hurry, let us take some photographs first.’

‘Photo! Why photographs?’ I ask bewildered.

‘Of course, it is a special occasion,’ Asha murmurs.

‘Daddy, go slow, we have to take pictures,’ says Deepu. I am getting irritated with all this tamasha (fuss) but then, what can I say. Asha is beaming, how this lady likes all these formalities! I am strained now and I can feel my smile disappear under this unknown atmosphere. ‘Come on, let’s get on with this,’ I mumble.

‘Shaant ho jao, shaant ho jao [calm down, calm down],’ mutters Asha, who can sense that I am getting fidgety.

‘Okay. Okay.’ I say. What else can I do?

Thank God. It is all over. The rings have been exchanged and the huge cake has been cut. Have I ever cut a cake before in my life, I can’t recall. There is animated conversation going around but I can’t make much about it. Asha has guided me to a sofa.

We are both sitting; the others are all around us. Now I just want this drama to end … suddenly there is loud applause. I snap out of my reverie and look at my younger son-in-law, Rohit. He is announcing something; I can’t understand anything in the cacophony. And then a white board is placed in front along with a computer. What are they doing? Rohit is standing near the computer. I want him to stop all this nonsense. Enough is enough now. We should eat and leave.

Where are we? Oh yes, I remember, we are in the hotel where Vikram works, the Taj. How much will all this cost? All sheer wastage of money, but now they don’t listen to me, not even Asha. I glance at her; she is happily looking at Rohit, waiting for whatever they are doing. I have no choice.

‘We are all here for a very special occasion,’ says Rohit, ‘This is a great day for Daddy and Mummy.’ He adds beaming.

Oh yes, today is my wedding anniversary, it brings a smile to my face. Fifty years with Asha and I am surrounded with all my lovely children and relatives.

But what is he saying? I can hear my heart beat irregularly.

‘We’ve made a film on the life of this self-made and farsighted person – that filled up our lives with joy and happiness – our Daddy. Even though the majority here know him, this film is a tribute to him.’

A film! How could he make a film on my life, from where did he get the information. I am zapped. I look around, all of them are smiling. But I am scared. Why? Why did I agree to all this? I was never told about this film thing. What is in it, my life? How could it be? What was my life? Thoughts swirl in my mind toppling over each other. I can’t recall anything that can be put in this film. Am I not a worthless fellow? I did nothing in life. Are they going to show all this and embarrass me. But then what can I do, no one listens to me. I look at Asha. It is no use, she is beaming with pride. Silly woman, I clutch my shaking hands and resign to my fate.

‘This film will showcase the life of Daddy and Mummy. It is sketchy because despite our efforts we could not get all the old photographs.’

What is he talking about? My life? Asha’s life? What do these children know about my life? But now do I?

4

Dadoo and Mamma have gone to sleep after the party and all of us, brothers and sisters are in the living room. I have asked them to talk about their relationship with Dadoo. But there is silence.

Finally Mala didi starts to speak slowly and softly. ‘I am forty-nine years old now and my earliest memories of Daddy go back to the time when he had started building the house in Solan. I was about six then and he was thirty-six. It was 1968, a very different era. In those times people used to build houses only after they retired from service or they just went back to their villages to live in their ancestral houses. But Daddy was different. He had the house built and ours was the second house in this area – the only other house was the palace of Raja of Bhagat state. I remember Mamma telling me that there was nothing but a jungle all around and it was considered a dangerous and lonely area infested with wild animals. People were surprised why Daddy was building a house in wilderness. He would tell them, “Today it may be lonely but it is cheap and I can afford it, after some years it will be one of the most expensive lands in Solan.” How right he was! Our house is in the middle of the most posh area of Solan town today.’

‘What else do you remember, didi, from that time?’ asks Deepak, as we all look at her expectantly.

‘I was a small child then but I have clear memories of both Daddy and Mamma working like labourers while constructing the house. They carried cement, sand and bricks on their heads while I played in the sand. They were not ashamed of doing so. May be Daddy did not have money to employ more labourers, but they were so proud of building their house themselves. Daddy was also the second person in the town to own a vehicle. It was a second-hand scooter that he bought on installments. Everyone looked at us with awe and my friends envied me and treated me with special favours because of it,’ she says laughing, ‘and you know my childhood was very secure and bindaas [carefree]. I don’t have any regrets. Daddy loved us all but more than love, he respected us. This is very important for a child.’

‘Yes, he would always explain things in detail, even minor issues, with lot of reasoning. He allowed me to disagree with him even as a child. He always respected other’s decision,’ recalls Vikram smiling.

Mala didi continues, ‘I was about eight when I fell for a pair of purple- and orange-coloured earrings, which were for five rupees and were considered very expensive those days; besides, Daddy’s income wasn’t that much but, of course, I was blissfully unaware of that. Anyway, I told Daddy that I wanted the earrings and for one week, he would take me to the shop and reason out with me that I should drop the idea. He told me that those were expensive and he could not afford it, he would tell me about his monthly income and expenditure but I was too young and foolish to understand that. He told me that they were too big for me, the colour would not suit me and so on. But I was adamant. Finally he purchased the earrings for me but before that he made me promise that for entire one year I would not ask for anything else. I readily agreed, one year was too far but the earrings were right there gleaming in front of me! I was delighted and felt on top of the world. But this happiness did not last long.’

‘What happened?’ I ask, curious.

‘There was a birthday party in the neighbourhood after a few days and Mamma gave the earrings as a birthday present. I cried and cried. In the evening when Daddy came I complained to him. I still remember his words to Mamma, “Asha, that was a wrong thing to do. These were her earrings. For one full week I tried to convince her to drop the idea but she did not agree. She promised me that she would buy nothing else for the entire year if I bought her those earrings. You had no right to give away something that belonged to her.”’

‘There is another incident that I recall clearly. I was very fond of burfi and that too from Premji’s Sweet Shop. He made the finest burfi in the world. Daddy used to buy it regularly from there but suddenly he stopped bringing it from Premji’s. I threw a tantrum, “I will not eat any sweet which is not from Premjis.” He told me that others also made good burfi, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Ultimately Daddy took me to Premji’s shop, and that’s when I got to know the reason why he had stopped buying mithai from there. The owner’s son, who had started to sit at the cash counter, was Daddy’s student. He refused to take payment from his teacher. When we entered the shop, he touched Daddy’s feet. Daddy said to him, “I am in a dilemma. My daughter likes sweets only from your shop but you refuse to take money. I want to buy sweets from your shop so that she is happy but I will do so only if you take the payment otherwise this poor girl will remain unhappy.” Thankfully, for me, he understood and I was able to have my burfi.’

Vikram adds, ‘Yeah, didi is right. Daddy always stood by his principles. I also remember an incident, once a man from Kuljar, our native village, had come to meet Daddy for some work. He had brought lots of gifts – sugarcane, jaggery, ghee and even a box of mithai. I was waiting for him to go so that I could savour all that. Daddy talked to him for about half an hour and to my horror the man left taking all those gifts back with him. I was so depressed that I started crying. For a long time Daddy kept on asking me the reason for my outburst. I was so angry at him. In the end I told him the reason. He laughed aloud and hugged me and said, “It was wrong to keep this mithai.” And then he explained, “It is not wrong to express gratitude by giving gifts to people we love and respect and we must honour the feelings of others. But this man wanted an undue favour from me. That is unfair.” I asked him, “Will you not do his work?” He shook his head, “I will try to help him if it is fair, just and right. He has come from so far with so much hope.” I was confused and reasoned that if he would do the work, then it made sense to accept the sweets and the other gifts. He explained to me that had the man come without a motive, he would have accepted the gifts, but this was a kind of bribery. He told me not to be greedy in life.’

Suddenly Pooja, Deepak’s wife intervenes, ‘Can I also say something, didi, as a daughter-in-law?’

I nod.

She is emotional and talks between sobs, ‘When I got married I found Daddy to be hyperactive and too energetic. I did not understand him but then slowly I realized what a caring person he was. He was more caring and protective than my father. He accepted me like a daughter. He would always stand up for me, I clearly remember how once he did everything he could to get me a visa for Singapore, where Deepak was posted. We had gone to Chandigarh for the visa application. The officials there were quite rude and indifferent; and without even listening to us they told us that it would take lot of time. Daddy first tried reasoning out with them, but then it gradually led to a heated argument. But Daddy ensured I got the visa the same day. That’s when I realized that till then no one had ever fought for me or for my rights.’

‘He always encouraged me to study. I had never dreamt that I would study further after marriage. He was the one who motivated me to join a distance-learning course and used to tell Mamma to let me study when I had my exams.’

‘I admire him for his adventurous spirit and his pro-activeness. He is such a friendly person. In Singapore he used to chat up with everyone around him, in markets, buses and trams. He was never class-conscious and used to bring Indian workers to our house and would ask me to serve tea and food to them. After he left for India, these people would enquire about his health regularly and always ask if I needed any help. He gave love and received love in abundance.’

‘When I was expecting Madhav, he was so caring, frequently asking me whether I needed something special to eat. He is a man with a clear heart: Couple of times when he scolded me only to realize that I was not at fault, he would come and apologize. I believe that he is the best father in the world, and I think he loves me the most.’

Deepak looks at his wife smiling and says, ‘This is impossible. I think he loves me the most because I am the youngest.’

‘No, I think he loves me the most,’ says Mala didi, ‘I am confident I am his favourite child. I am guilty of not becoming his ideal child but now when I am nearly fifty I realize that despite all his efforts – to providing me the best education, to showering love on me as much as he could, to giving me so many other opportunities – I did not make use of them because something, somewhere went wrong. I married very young without parent’s consent. Daddy was so angry with me. For years he did not make any contact, but later he reconciled and accepted me. When he saw that I was unhappy in my marriage he told me to walk out of it and return to him. He always said that he would support me and my daughter and we need not worry. But I did not have the courage. I only wish that I should have paid heed to what he was saying much earlier. I wasted many years! Now I am divorced and happy. I love him the most in the world and I know he loves me in his own special way.’

‘Let me tell you all something,’ says Vikram raising his hands, ‘once I had asked him this question, who was his favourite child and whom did he love the most?’

‘What did he say?’ Mala didi asks expectantly as we all look towards Vikram.

‘He said, for parents all children are the same but parents love that child the most at a given point of time who is in trouble,’ said Vikram.

Suddenly Deepak asks, ‘Was Daddy always bald?’

‘Deepu, don’t ask childish things, what kind of question is this?’ I object.

‘I am not joking, I am curious. I want to know. I do not remember seeing him with hair.’

He has a point, I start thinking and get a vague and hazy picture of his with thick mane but I am not sure. As far as I remember he always had less hair on his head, though he was not bald. I am about to say this when didi intervenes, ‘I remember that he had good black hair, but he lost these quite early, probably in early forties.’

‘Don’t we have an old photograph?’ Deepak asks.

‘We will find one, in those long lost albums stored in the cupboards, a picture of a young Daddy. That can wait but you tell us about Dadoo now,’ I say to Deepak.

I can feel his anxiety and palpable tension. He wants to talk about Dadoo but he is emotional. Though he is thirty-six he is hesitant to talk in front of us because he is the youngest. Haltingly he starts, ‘The word “impossible” was never in his dictionary for both himself and his children. He gave me full freedom to do whatever I wanted. He never exerted pressure on me; his faith in me was like a rock. I know that no one in the family believed that I would be selected in the National Institute of Technology [NIT], Hamirpur, and that too in the merit list was beyond imagination. I had scored only fifty-four per cent marks in plus two. But Daddy was the only one who said that I could do it.’

I blush as he reminds me of this. I was the one who had gone to check the result and conveyed that he had not made it. I had scanned the list of selected candidates and did not find his name. I did not bother to look for his name in the merit list; I never expected his name to be there! Later, I was quite surprised when I got to know that he was among the top twenty students.

Deepak continues, ‘After engineering when I wanted to do MBA from the Indian Institute of Management [IIM], again all of you doubted me and suggested it was waste of time, for the last nearly ten years not a single student from Himachal Pradesh had been selected in IIM, only geniuses got selected and I was not one of them. But then again only Daddy had faith in me and supported me wholeheartedly. I was called for interview by all the IIMs. It was all because of him. He never forced me to study like my friends’ parents did. He allowed me to proceed the way I wanted to. He was always there whenever we needed a shoulder to cry or someone to talk to. Moreover the confidence that he had in himself was enormous. I am now working in the most competitive global market but I must say that I do not possess that kind of confidence in life that he had. He has so many qualities; none of us have his qualities.’

‘What exactly do you mean?’ I murmur.

‘He always believed that if there is a problem, then there has to be a solution. He never gives up. There is always a sense of security when he is around. Even now I feel if Daddy is here no one can touch us, nothing will go wrong. Mala didi has his compassion and humanity; you have his intellect and worldliness. Vikram has his quality of shouldering responsibility. I unfortunately have none except that I am not a bad person and I am fair in my dealings. But these are so few in all four of us combined. We can’t match what Daddy has,’ he pauses and then continues, ‘I remember one incident that I cherish as a very valuable lesson. I was in class nine and had gone to the market with Daddy. We purchased grocery items from Gupta uncle’s shop. Daddy paid the bill but when we got home and checked the bill, he realized that Gupta-ji had taken seventy rupees less. He told me to go back and return the money. I was reluctant and insisted that it was not our fault and that he miscalculated. Daddy replied, “It is not his fault too, no one would want to take less money. And since we know the truth now, it would be injustice to keep it. Money-related decisions must be based on our inner voice, always listen to your inner voice.” He is my greatest motivator and mentor.’

Vikram says, ‘It is so strange that Daddy is having this problem with his memory, he has not just been a maths teacher, but he has a very analytical mind and he has been so good with money.’

‘Yes, Vikram is right, Daddy supported a big family with his modest salary and he knew how to multiply money. He saved sensibly and invested wisely. He bought land and then sold these plots on premium, thereby growing his wealth. It was his farsightedness that made us what we are today. Each one of us got best education and never felt that he could not support our education however expensive it was. I am in banking sector and I can say with total confidence that he would have done great had he been in banking and finance,’ Deepak adds.

‘I remember another thing,’ Vikram says, ‘he was fearless. I recall that when he bought a car in Nigeria, a red Morris, he drove it straight from showroom to home.’

‘He went alone?’ Deepak is astonished.

‘No, Paul uncle was with him, but it was Daddy who drove. He had never taken a seat behind a four-wheeler earlier. I was amazing. Everyone was surprised and Mamma was so scared. But he said that it was simple, there was not much difference between a two-wheeler and a four wheeler. You just had to apply your mind and concentrate.’

‘I think above all he is a great human being, full of compassion and always willing to help. I remember that once Daddy had gone to Shimla for some work. It was winters. When he came back he knocked at the front door. I looked out of the window and did not recognize him. There was a man in a baniyan [vest], without a shirt. I called Mamma and said that there was a man outside. She said that it must be Daddy. I said that no, he is only wearing a baniyan. “Then no it can’t be your Daddy, he was wearing a coat. Tell the uncle that your Daddy is not in the house, he should come later,” Mamma said. But the man would not leave and kept banging on the door till a scared Mamma opened the door and to her astonishment saw that the man shivering in the vest was Daddy. He told us that he had met a person at Shimla bus stand who was very poor and had no clothes, so he had given his coat and shirt to him,’ Mala did fondly remembers.

Vikram states, ‘Since childhood we have celebrated all festivals in our house. Christmas and Eid are as sacred for us as Diwali and Holi. This is because of him. It is so painful to see him lose his memory.’

And then Mala didi says something that makes me think ‘Rewa, you are a writer. Why don’t you share the story of Daddy with everyone else?’

I nod and wonder how dementia and Alzheimer’s is destroying his healthy mind.

5

What is dementia and Alzheimer’s?

Dementia means ‘without mind’ and the word comes from Latin language. The Oxford Dictionary defines dementia as ‘a serious mental disorder caused by brain disease or injury, that affects the ability to think, remember and behave normally’.

Named after Alois Alzheimer, a German psychiatrist and neuropathologist, Alzheimer’s is the most common form of dementia. The prognosis of the disease is progressive irreversible memory loss, disorientation and delusions. Initially the patients lose the ability to do routine things like buying groceries, withdrawing money from the bank and paying bills. Gradually, they lose sense of place and time, forget people around them and even fail to recognize themselves. In the end they forget not only to eat and swallow but also to breathe.

It is a dreadful disease that eats you alive. Although it is more common in the elderly, it can also occur before the age of sixty-five. It has no cure and even after advancements like MRIs and CT scans, final diagnosis that the disease is Alzheimer’s can be made only after the death of a person, by opening his skull.

According to the Alzheimer’s Association:

‘Dementia is a general term for a decline in mental ability severe enough to interfere with daily life. Memory loss is an example. … Many people have memory loss issues – this does not mean they have Alzheimer’s or another dementia. … While symptoms of dementia can vary greatly, at least two of the following core mental functions must be significantly impaired to be considered dementia: memory; communication and language; ability to focus and pay attention; reasoning and judgment; [and] visual perception. … Dementia is caused by damage to brain cells. This damage interferes with the ability of brain cells to communicate with each other. When brain cells cannot communicate normally, thinking, behavior and feelings can be affected. The brain has many distinct regions, each of which is responsible for different functions (for example, memory, judgment and movement). When cells in a particular region are damaged, that region cannot carry out its functions normally. … There is no one test to determine if someone has dementia. Doctors diagnose Alzheimer’s and other types of dementia based on a careful medical history, a physical examination, laboratory tests, and the characteristic changes in thinking, day-to-day function and behavior associated with each type.’*

‘Alzheimer’s is a progressive disease, where dementia symptoms gradually worsen over a number of years. In its early stages, memory loss is mild, but with late-stage Alzheimer’s, individuals lose the ability to carry on a conversation and respond to their environment. … As Alzheimer’s advances through the brain it leads to increasingly severe symptoms, including disorientation, mood and behavior changes; deepening confusion about events, time and place; unfounded suspicions about family, friends and professional caregivers; more serious memory loss and behavior changes; and difficulty speaking, swallowing and walking.’*

And my Dadoo is not the only one. The World Health Organization estimates: ‘The total number of people with dementia worldwide in 2010 is estimated at 35.6 million and is projected to nearly double every 20 years, to 65.7 million in 2030 and 115.4 million in 2050. The total number of new cases of dementia each year worldwide is nearly 7.7 million, implying one new case every four seconds.’**

About five years back Mamma had started complaining that it was becoming difficult for her to handle Dadoo whenever they went to stay with Vikram or Deepak during winter months. He was always restless – and we thought it was because he got bored and was not comfortable in the new environment – he wanted to rush back to Solan.

Exasperated we would tell him that when in Solan he would always long to be with his children; so why was he unhappy staying with them for a couple of months? I had no idea then that stability of his daily routine and the familiarity of the place was the best way to keep him secure and comfortable.

*http://www.alz.org/alzheimers_disease_what_is_alzheimers.asp

**http://www.who.int/medicines/areas/priority_medicines/BP6_11Alzheimer.pdf

Oh how many times have I heard – it is very difficult for the children to take care of old parents. It is even more difficult to handle a parent suffering from dementia. Not only do you need time and finances but you also require many supportive and sensitive family members around. You may love your parent but this disease can slowly make that love evaporate. It is extremely traumatic and difficult to manage a person suffering from dementia, especially in the small families that we have now.

6

10 April 2010

I am excited. My Dadoo is coming today. I wait impatiently, looking down for their vehicle, Vikram’s Honda City.

I restlessly pace to pass the time in the small open space outside our cottage in Shimla. As I see the car, I literally run down the fifty odd stairs. Dadoo is in his traditional Kullu topi, and patti ka coat which I had bought for him from Rampur Bushahr. He is looking dazed. I glance cursorily at Mamma, she smiles. Excitedly I move forward calling out, ‘The best person in the world has come, my Dadoo has come.’ He beams and looks at me with love and pride. I hug and kiss him by dozens. I have never ever felt odd kissing him – on roads, in parties and in front of anyone – and I don’t bother about what people think.

As he settles outside the cottage in the sun he says, ‘Enjoy every moment, there is nothing in life.’ I nod. Now every one of his phrases is very precious to me, they have deeper meaning.

Lakshmi, our housekeeper, gives him tea; he sips it and says, ‘This tea is very tasty.’ And then adds, ‘How much money do you give her every month?’ I mumble and then guiltily lie, ‘One thousand rupees.’

‘One thousand,’ he says and then asks Mamma, ‘How much do we give to the lady in Solan?’

Mamma doesn’t know what to say, I intervene, ‘Five hundred.’

‘But the lady there comes for two hours and she does not cook,’ he says unhappily. I nod. Ramesh, the other person who takes care of my house, brings hot gulab jamuns: Like everyone in the family Dadoo too has a sweet tooth.

He bites into the piping hot gulab jamuns with pleasure. He is awed when I tell him that they are made at home.

‘Who made them?’ he asks surprised.

‘Ramesh.’

‘How much do you pay him?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, the guilt of lying increasing twofold. He frowns.

‘Then how does he stay here?’

‘He is in a job. I give him a place to stay and food to eat.’

‘Oh.’

Recently all of us have started lying to him about price of things. We undervalue so that he remains calm. Otherwise he gets agitated for ‘wasting’ so much money ‘unnecessarily’.

Mamma was not comfortable in coming frequently to my house, because regular and long visits to a married daughter’s house are generally considered inappropriate, though Dadoo had no qualms about it. But now she realizes that she gets ample rest here unlike Solan where she has to take care of Dadoo alone with no help.

And then Dadoo says, ‘I love Rohit a lot.’

I nod.

‘He is unique, I have never seen anyone like him.’

‘He also loves you a lot, Dadoo,’ I say, ‘in fact he is more worried about you than I am. He is the one who always says that you should come and stay with us.’

Dadoo asks innocently, ‘Can I stay here with you forever?’

‘Yes, forever,’ I mumble.

I am both saddened and happy by this statement. I remember Mamma’s call one morning when she informed me how Dadoo was crying inconsolably while later telling her that she didn’t have to worry because Rewa and Rohit were there to look after her. Mamma too was sobbing while telling this to me. I felt an ache in my heart: He has two lovely sons yet he feels more attached to us.

‘Give her the gift that we have brought,’ Dadoo said interrupting my reverie.

‘Gift? I haven’t brought any gift,’ says Mamma.

‘What! Give her the gift.’

‘Kuch nahin layee [I have brought nothing], I have brought no gift,’ Mamma asserts.

‘Don’t lie. Go inside and bring it from the bag.’

I don’t want them to argue and try to console him, ‘It is okay, Dadoo.’

‘No,’ he says, he is shouting now, ‘go inside and give her the money otherwise I will go and get the purse.’

I feel uneasy. I don’t want any money. But I don’t know what to say to him. He is so agitated; a few minutes back it all seemed so normal.

Mamma says, ‘I will give it to her, why are you getting angry, Rohit will feel bad.’

‘Give it to her in front of me,’ he repeats becoming angrier.

I budge in, ‘Okay, okay. I will bring the purse,’ I go inside, Lakshmi is mopping the floor. I don’t want to leave footprints on the wet floor, so as I turn I bump into Dadoo. He has followed me.

‘Let Lakshmi mop the floor and let it dry, then we will get the purse.’ I say hugging him.

‘Okay’ he says, he is back to normal.

‘How many days will I stay here?’ he asks me.

‘Ten days, Dadoo.’

‘Will Rohit have the time? I have to discuss many things with him.’

‘Yes, after office hours he will have lot of time,’ I say kissing his forehead.

‘I have so much property,’ he murmurs. I nod.

‘There is one piece of prime land here in Shimla too,’ he says.

‘No, Dadoo.’

‘Of course,’ he says affirmatively. ‘I will ask Rohit,’ he adds dismissing me.

‘Okay, do that,’ I give him a glass of juice.

‘Is this fresh?’ he asks.

I shake my head.

‘Then?’

‘It is from a tetra-pack.’

‘You put water in it?’

‘No, it is pure juice.’

‘How much did it cost?’

‘Sixty rupees.’

‘Sixty rupees?’ surprised he asks, ‘how many glasses, four?’

‘Yes, about four.’

‘Where do you get it?’

‘In a shop here.’

‘I want to buy too.’

I nod.

‘Now my pension is going to be fifty thousand rupees.’

‘No, Dadoo. It is going to be forty-two thousand rupees and that is when you will turn eighty.’

‘No, it will be fifty thousand rupees after fifty years of service.’

I am zapped. I want to say that you have retired twenty years ago and had served only thirty-seven years. ‘It will increase in May when you turn eighty,’ I say patiently.

‘I think I have a lot of money, even this pension is enough.’

I nod.

‘Will we go to the market?’ he asks suddenly.

‘After lunch, Dadoo,’ I say.

‘Do I know someone here?’

‘Yes, you have a friend here, Malkiet uncle.’

‘What is he? A doctor?’

‘No, Dadoo, he is a lawyer.’

‘Yes, yes, vakil hai.’

‘Is Rohit going to be promoted?’

‘Yes, towards the end of next year.’

‘What will he become?’

‘Deputy Commissioner.’

‘Wah, wah, he will be DC,’ he says beaming with pride.

‘May be next to next year,’ I say clarifying, happy that Rohit is nowhere in the near listening to this fancy prediction.

‘I am so thankful to God. You two have done me proud. All my children have done me proud,’ he adds.

‘How much does Rohit earn?’

‘Eighty thousand rupees.’

‘Do you save?’

‘More than forty thousand rupees, Dadoo,’ I mumble, winking at Mamma.

‘Is this house on rent?’

‘No, government accommodation.’

‘Vikram also earns ninety thousand rupees and so does Deepu,’ he says looking at me for confirmation.

I nod.

‘Does Deepu earn ninety thousand rupees?’

‘Yes,’ wondering what his reaction will be if I tell him that Deepu earns more than five lakh rupees a month.

‘Deepu and you have loved me the most. I am at times worried about Mala. This is the only regret I have. But on the other hand all my kids are settled and happy,’ he says with pride.

‘Yes, Dadoo. But tell me who is the best. Do say it is Rewa.’

He ignores me, ‘Now I will grow old. No one can stop this from happening. My happiness is when my children are happy. They should do mauj, jaise humne mauj ki [they should enjoy, as we enjoyed], parents want nothing else. I want nothing from life now. I have a house to stay, a place to sleep, food to eat. What else do I need? Asha should be happy, children should be happy, that is all.’

Then as if he remembers something, he looks affectionately at Rohit who has joined us for lunch, ‘I have three sons and he is one of them,’ he hugs an embarrassed Rohit who smiles.

He shifts to his favourite topic, ‘Rohit, do you get leave? Take a few days leave and come to Solan. I have a few things to settle. My LIC accounts, my property documentation. I do not know anything. There is so much of confusion. You must take leave for at least five to seven days,’ he laughs and caresses Rohit’s cheeks.

‘We will come, Daddy, I will take leave,’ Rohit says sincerely.

‘You must. Vikram and Deepu will also come, raunak ho jayegi [it will be full of life].’ And then adds worriedly, ‘I don’t know. Deepak may get settled there in Singapore.’

‘Deepak is also coming.’ I hurriedly quip in so that he doesn’t feel sad that his youngest son will settle abroad.

Suddenly he says with a spark of energy, ‘Let us all go to Singapore to Deepak’s place. There are many Indians there. Let us go, we will have a good trip.’

‘Okay, Dadoo, we will plan a trip,’ I mumble.

7

12 April 2010

I look out of the window, it is dark outside. Probably it will start raining. Dadoo and Mamma are comfortably settled in bed.

‘Dadoo, tell me about your marriage,’ I ask.

‘News came from Burma, the girl is fourth standard pass. That was a different time. Fourth class was good enough education, at least for the females. When she came, I asked her about her qualification she told me that she had only passed second standard.’

‘So what? It was fine with you when you had accepted fourth pass. There is hardly any difference,’ says Mamma conversationally.

I settle down to hear their story.

‘What choice did I have? The girl was from Burma! It was “a catch” to get married to a firangi! And they were millionaires,’ he says happily.

‘Did you get dowry, Dadoo?’

‘No, nothing—’

‘—Why are you lying, you got everything – dressing table, dining table, beds, beddings, utensils, and ten thousand rupees cash for car. Three sets of jewellery, gold buttons, gold cufflinks and not to forget the twenty-four carat gold Parker pen,’ Mamma quickly adds.

‘Ten thousand for car!’ I exclaim warming up to their discussion.

‘Their family said they did not need a car, so your Nana gave cash,’ Mamma clarifies, ‘however, your chacha took the money. All other items too were kept in his house, the joint family used it. I could not pick my stuff from there, they would have felt bad.’

‘Prakash needed money for business so I gave it to him. It doesn’t matter who used it,’ said Dadoo sheepishly and then asks, ‘Where is your brother?’

‘Baldev Mamaji?’ I enquire.

‘Is he alive?’ asks Dadoo seriously.

Mamma glares at him.

‘Where does he live? Delhi?’ he asks hastily.

‘In Bhabhor Sahib,’ Mamma replies.

‘Her brother does not have any affection for her. I will tell you a secret, she is not the real sister of Baldev. She is from a different mother. That is why he does not love her.’

‘This is what he thinks. No one talks about this in our family,’ snaps Mamma.

‘Everything changes with time, Asha. But one thing is sure, my voti [wife] is very wise,’ he retorts laughingly, ‘through her winks and gestures she stops me from talking.’

Mamma grins knowing that she has to do all this to handle him in his different moods.

‘I have forgotten her father’s name. I think it was Milkhi Ram. People were in awe of their family, they were the richest and most prominent family in that area. My father was also an adviser to the raja, we too belong to the elite of Bilaspur State.’

‘We had jeeps, trucks, farms, mills and so much more, we had groundnuts, pulses, sesame, plantations of mangoes and litchis,’ says Mamma fondly.

‘Her brother was not even seventh pass. He ran away from school. I know that.’

‘Mamma, you tell me about your life in Burma,’ I intervene quickly.

‘We were one of the richest families in Burma. Then something happened and your Nana was arrested in civil unrest, his partner fled to India. Later your Nana was captured by the Japanese and kept as a prisoner for three months. I had a chacha and a chachi amongst other relatives there. We prayed fervently for his release; hundreds of roses were needed every day for puja. And then we got to know that the prisoners were being sent to Kala Pani … We went to meet him … I don’t remember much … He came back after three months and started work again. I don’t know whether he was sent to Kala Pani or not. I was about four years old then.’

‘The British Raj changed at that time … when he was captured,’ says Dadoo grudgingly entering the conversation.

‘Our house was in Bhamo. The only way to reach Bhamo from Rangoon was by taking a flight to Mandley, which was scheduled to fly only once a week, and then a journey by road to Bhamo. I remember, a Japanese soldier entered our premises during the Second World War. He begged for water but no one gave him water. He was shot. I still feel miserable about this, but we were all so scared, he was the enemy,’ she says defensively.

‘We had our own temples. Priests from Benaras were specially employed to take care of the temples. We had cooks at that time. We travelled in jeeps and whenever we travelled to India, we always flew. We had a huge well inside the house. Our house had toilets, very few houses had a toilet at that time,’ Mamma recalls.

‘What a problem we had! My father had to construct a toilet when we got married especially for her. It was the talk of the village,’ he guffaws, ‘They were interested in the toilet more that the pretty bride.’

‘Were you very beautiful?’ I ask.

‘I was called Mala Sinha – the star. The Burmese watched a lot of Indian movies,’ Mamma says coyly.

‘Her father was a king! He was so rich but her brother was jealous of me,’ says Dadoo getting agitated.

‘My father died at the age of sixty-five. He was coming to India. He died of heart attack. Everything in Burma was confiscated by the government,’ Mamma continues.

‘They had a very bad time after that. Bahut bura haal hua [it was very bad],’ says Dadoo.

‘My father had five brothers; two were in Burma and the rest were in India. I had so many cousins, now I have lost touch with them,’ says Mamma wistfully.

‘Look at her brothers’ children. They are not doing anything,’ says Dadoo.

‘What are your brothers’ children doing?’ Mamma asks defensively.

‘Her father married twice,’ says Dadoo ignoring Mamma’s barb.

‘Your brother also married twice. What about him?’ Mamma counters.

‘Oh, you don’t know her brother, your mama, he never invited me to have food with him and he did not even have tea with me. He was so jealous.’

This topic is getting out of control, I think.

‘She also did not love her brother, this is the truth. I know that,’ he says.

‘I loved him and I love him.’

‘She is wrong. I know it. They were of different mothers.’

‘In my marriage all jewellery came from Ambala. I had diamond karas [thick bangles], with rubies studded on them. My bhabhi was very good. She loved me more than her daughters,’ Mamma recalls.

‘Rewa, leave it. Talk something else. Don’t remind me of the sad past,’ says Dadoo out of the blue.

‘Is it hurtful, Dadoo?’ I say trying to look serious.

Dadoo is silent.

‘Did you get a lot of gold in your marriage?’ I persist looking at Mamma.

‘Rani haar [queen necklace] and gold karas, they weighed more than a kilo,’ says Mamma.

‘Asha, is your brother alive? Do you know anything about him?’

‘Yes my brother is alive. He lives in Delhi and sometimes in Bhabhor Sahib.’

‘Look at her, she does not know the exact whereabouts of her brother. She has no clue about his children. He does not even come to meet her.’

‘All this is because of you,’ Mamma snaps.

‘Don’t make a noise, go to your brother. You cannot stay there even for a night. He has not even called her for the last twenty years. They are strangers. He has never asked her if she is alive or not.’

‘Shanti rakho [be calm],’ Mamma says.

‘It is a question of fate, each one has his or her own kismat [fate]. Her mama was a judge. He and my father were class fellows and that is how we were married,’ he says concluding, giving Mamma an affectionate smile.

‘Out of the two families which one was more important, Dadoo?’ I ask.

Mamma hisses, ‘Chup reh, baat ko mat badha [keep quiet, don’t stretch the conversation].’

‘I can’t say. We both are winners in this marriage. When our marriage was fixed I was in Solan; prior to that I was posted in Bilaspur. Had I stayed there for a few more months, I would have married Malkiet’s sister. Malkiet’s father was very influential and rich. At that time marriage was more between families than individuals. So social status was important … ’

‘But aren’t you happy with her?’ I ask quickly.

‘Of course, she is the best,’ he says making Mamma smile.

8

Dadoo was born in a small, non-descript village, Chaunta, in erstwhile Bilaspur state of present day Himachal Pradesh in the year 1931. He was named Jagdev, meaning the god of the world.

His father, Lala Amrit Lal Verma was a landlord and the village moneylender – a ‘rich’ man from village standards. He had studied engineering in Lahore. For some time he worked as an overseer under the British Government but then he left his job as untimely death of my father’s grandfather brought him back to take over the money-lending business in the village. Also someone had to look after the land and the shops.

My grandfather was a well-known person in Bilaspur state; he was close to the Raja of Bilaspur and was one of his advisers. He was elected as the pradhan (head) of the village panchayat and remained so for more than sixty years till his death at the age of ninety-five.

Bilaspur state was the last to accede to the Indian Union after Independence. The state, known as Kehloor, had come into existence at the foot of the western Himalayas more than a millennium ago. This land of legendary sages Markandaya and Ved Vyas was ruled by many progressive rulers. Not only the rulers even the common people of Bilaspur are a proud lot, even though the outsiders see this pride as arrogance.

Dadoo belonged to the generation that saw the state capital of Kehloor – the beautiful town of Bilaspur, named after sage Ved Vyas, who is said to have meditated here – submerge when Bhakhra Dam was built. This temple of modern India changed everything for the people. Everything. Their homes, shops, fertile fields, exquisite temples dating back to seventh century, the grand palaces, market, and the vast plain known as Sandu ka Maidan went down in the Gobind Sagar Lake. The scars of this submergence and the pain of being uprooted from the land of their ancestors never left Dadoo. He always remained an outsider – an oustee – the rootless person.

We children, who were unware of the emotional upheaval that submergence had caused, could never understand his pain and could not relate to him when he said that he longed to go back to go to Chaunta, his native village. But there was no Chaunta! It had gone down in the Satluj; it was under the Gobind Sagar Lake, the reservoir of Bhakra Dam. The village disappeared but nostalgia remained and Jagdev Verma, my Dadoo, has been living with this nostalgia all his life.

It was not just the pain of submergence of Chaunta but also the fact that he had to leave his second home too that made him distressed. They were offered land in Jaddu Kuljar – backward area – after Chaunta was submerged. Since my grandfather was educated, he sent away Dadoo to study in a school, at the age of four, which was far away from the village. Dadoo initially stayed with his maternal uncle and then shifted to a hostel in Bhanoopli; he then moved to Mahalpur and eventually to Hoshiarpur for further studies. He was the first person to do MA in mathematics from the Bilaspur state.

Dadoo taught mathematics to graduate and post graduate students for decades. Mathematics is all about memory and numbers, but now, he is forgetting things that are so common. How could dementia happen to him, the professor of mathematics? Mysteries of brain are so deep and confusing.

After completing his degree Dadoo came back to his village but soon his father asked him to look for a job. And so, along with a servant Dadoo left for Shimla, the biggest town.

Dadoo used to narrate this tale so many times with chuckles, ‘I left the house with great expectations and decided to become a deputy commissioner. I put up at a sarai [a lodge] in Shimla, as there were few hotels and my father had instructed the servant to cook good food for me.’ He would always laugh at this point.

‘Soon I got to know that I had to clear an exam for it which was not scheduled yet. So I walked all the way to Rampur, about one hundred and twenty kilometres from Shimla, on the banks of the Satluj. Here, I joined as a clerk. So the “deputy commissioner” became a “babu”. When the magistrate at Rampur got to know that a highly qualified person had joined as a clerk, he called me and told me to find a job suitable for my qualification. A month later, I joined as a lecturer at the degree college in Bilaspur.’

Dadoo did his B.Ed after that and he was selected to go on deputation to Nigeria. He had to stay there for ten years. Unfortunately we had to leave Mala didi and Vikram in India because of their education. Mala didi was in eighth standard, studying in a Hindi medium school, so could not have shifted to the new educational system in Nigeria. Vikram was also put in a boarding school in Shimla so that both had each other’s company. Initially Deepak and I accompanied Mamma and Dadoo to Africa. Vikram too came to Nigeria after Mala didi completed her matric and shifted to Solan, where our grandmother came to stay with her.

Dadoo instead of living miserly and saving money like so many others of his generation, travelled all over Europe, Asia, Africa and America. We used to rent a house in London for a month and he would take us to different countries. We roamed around like gypsies.

9

Brain works round the clock but when we are healthy we do not appreciate its effort. We take it for granted. It is not a machine, all our ideas and tales of laughter, desire and pain take shape inside the brain. It separates the past from the present in a very meaningful manner without de-linking the two. It is an always churning and brewing melting pot of sanity that gives us sense of time and meaning to our existence.

But for Dadoo this churning has stopped. For him there is endless confusion. He is at war with himself, trying to give meaning to things that he had always known but which are so unfamiliar. Everything is slipping before him; slowly, each moment.

He does not quite remember which day of the week it is. A few months back he used to be focused on Sundays: He’d often ask, ‘Today is Sunday?’ ‘When is Sunday?’ or ‘After how many days is Sunday?’ May be that was his way of keeping track of time. But now even that is disappearing.

It is true that death erases the entire burden of living. Whatever happens, the thought of death being there at the end provides relief. I agree with him when he says, ‘Enjoy and celebrate life, each one of us will die one day.’ But celebration of life and comfort of death seem so meaningless when I see him ebbing away.

10

12 May 2010

I am so surprised. The man who left his home at the age of four, built a house in another part of the state, left India with family to work in an unknown African nation, roamed around the world would be so obsessed to return to his native village.

In the last few years, he had started talking for hours about Kuljar, his childhood and lament why he built this house in Solan, so far away from home. He felt rootless and displaced. ‘I am an outsider. You will never understand what it means,’ he would say to us.

‘I want to go to Kuljar. Sohnya sardara wey, neeli ghodi walya, tain kithe dera la laya, vey sonhnaya sardara vey … [Oh handsome warrior with a blue horse/where have you settled/Oh handsome warrior …]. Kuljar is my watan [native place]. I own large areas of land in Kuljar.’

I sit and listen as he sings.

Some things are so deep-rooted, it does not matter where you live all your adult life, in the end you want to return to where you were born. Dadoo repeatedly talks about his village, and contemplates to shift though there is no house to live in. But this does not matter to him as there are always the houses of neighbours, kyonki woh apne log hain [because they are our kin].

One day I asked him, ‘Dadoo, what made you come back from Nigeria? They had extended your deputation.’

‘No one can stay away from parents for long. In Nigeria the relationships were not permanent, my parents were here so I had to come back. I saw several countries, saved money, bought land with that money. Now I don’t know where these lands are or what happened to that money. I have forgotten now. Anyway what do I need money for? Nothing.’

And then he goes on, ‘Since my father was educated he enrolled me in a school and then college. I was thrown out of my house at the age of four by my father. Imagine!’

‘But it was for your good, for your education,’ I say.

‘Oh! You do not know. Every child needs parents. It makes such a difference,’ he says then adds, ‘You cannot understand this as you have not gone through anything like that and you have not known displacement.’

‘Whenever I returned home from school or college during vacations I was treated like a king by my father and the villagers were in awe of me. I too considered myself above them, way above. After all I was the only one from the village going to a college. Then I became the first MA of Bilaspur State. It was a proud thing.’

‘My mother gave me an extra helping of butter; I got the pickles, curd, buttermilk ahead of my brother and sister. Villagers came to me requesting me to write letters for them, or to read letters or other revenue papers, official letters. I enjoyed the wonder and reverence that I saw in their eyes.’

‘You too considered yourself special, Dadoo?’ I ask.

‘Yes, everyone in the house would get up early and start working. My brother, Prakash, and sister, Maya, would get up at four and start doing household chores, but I could sleep till late. My mother would not let anyone disturb me and whenever Prakash and Maya complained your grandfather would just smile. I would get up at my will and hot water was ready for my bath.’

‘You were a spoilt child,’ I say with mischief in my eyes.

‘May be,’ he says calmly, ‘whenever I expressed my desire to eat something your Dadi would cook that thing immediately. I was the male child, the elder one and on top of that I was educated and had seen the world.’

‘But there were other things too that made me feel special. The villagers used to wait for my annual vacations to get their paper work done. I enjoyed that attention. As I grew up I started to feel that for people I was important, they looked at me with awe and respect,’ he recalls.

It suddenly occurs to me that he got all the importance and attention but no love. He got love only from his mother. Even his brother and sister did not love him, they too were in awe of him. His father was like most men of his generation who never showed any emotion or affection. The villagers who came to him to get their letters read did not love him either. This led to a void forming deep inside him that he never fully understood but it was there. So may be that is the reason why he longs to go back to his roots but at the same time he runs away from it as he knows that there is no one there to welcome him.

‘My father was not a typical moneylender. He was a kind man who loved people and helped them. They reciprocated this help by making him the pradhan of the gram panchayat every time the elections were held; but this respect was only for him,’ he mumbles.

Dadoo has another part to his personality, a part that does not want control over people but wants people to be part of his life. He wants to be able to share with others, so he always tried to make friends.

He said to me once, ‘At times I felt that my father showed me as a trophy to everyone, that I was a matter of showing off. This robbed me of love of people. They just looked at me with admiration, they did not care for me. And remember this is very important – care and love, along with respect.’

He repeats the same things again and again. Earlier I used to tell him that he had already told me this, but now I realize that he does not remember. So I nod as he repeats the story, ‘My father was a moneylender. The interest that he earned was his income. He used to pledge gold too. Once all gold was stolen from the house, it was more than a hundred tolas, I think. Since it belonged to other people, it had to be returned. That was a difficult time for us. Your Dadi had to do a lot of work so that the gold could be returned. It took us decades to return the lost gold.’

‘Why did you not put it in the bank lockers?’ I ask.

‘At that time there were no lockers, it was always kept in the house, buried underground.’

‘Tell me something about Dadi, was she strict?’ I ask.

Dadoo looks at me bewildered, ‘What do you mean? You cannot define a mother. Strict or not strict, she was a mother after all. She was affectionate, she never scolded us.’

‘Did she discriminate against girls?’ I ask bashfully.

‘At that time equality was not what you understand by it now. Boys and girls were not equal. Parents preferred sons. Those were different times. Now there is equality. At that time parents thought that girls were to be married off. That was all. You have not seen those times. Those were bad times. There were only two girls in my college and there were a couple of them in the school. You could not have lived even for a day in those times. It was a bad time, very bad time. Bahut ganda samay tha larkiyon ke liye [it was very ugly time for the girls].’

‘I would not have cared, I would have set people right,’ I say haughtily.

‘This you are saying now because you are living in today’s world. Had you been living then you would not have said this.’

I nod trying to understand. I have never experienced discrimination on the base of gender in our family. We have always been Mala, Vikram, Rewa and Deepak – individuals with our own likes and dislikes. Dadoo has never said ‘I have two sons and two daughters.’ It has always been ‘I have four children’.

‘Tell me something interesting from the days when you started teaching,’ I ask changing the topic.

‘I used to give money to a colleague to provide me company in Bilaspur, my first posting. You would not find people to talk to in those days. Moreover, there were very few educated people with whom you could have discussion.’

‘Money? You paid money to someone to talk to you?’ I ask astonished.

‘Yes, to give me company. I paid him by the hour,’ he chuckles.

Dadoo never ceases to amaze me with his unconventional ways.

11

20 May 2010

It is a bright morning, I am looking at the flowers blooming wondering whether it will be the last season for the feast of flowers in our garden in Solan. Dadoo seldom does gardening now.

After watering the plants, Dadoo comes and joins me.

‘Kaam theek chal raha hai [is your work going on well]?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I mumble.

‘Why? What is the problem?’ he asks anxiously.

‘I am not able to do my work.’

‘Because of us?’

‘No, it is just that I don’t do it.’

‘Is it a new book?’

‘Yes.’

‘On what?’

‘Bilaspur.’

He looks at me blankly.

‘On you,’ I add.

‘Me, what about me?’ he asks bewildered.

‘On your life, your lifestyle and culture of your village.’

‘Oh you will have to go there, stay there, and talk to the people. Only then will you be able to write anything. What are you doing sitting here, go there and do some research,’ he says.

‘Tell me something about Bhakhra Dam,’ I ask suddenly.

Dadoo, almost instantly starts narrating, ‘We got land in Kuljar after the submergence of Chaunta, our original home. Raja Anand Chand, the ruler of Bilaspur state tried his best to save the ancient town of Bilaspur. He wanted to lower the height of the dam to a level, which would have saved the town. It was a beautiful city on the banks of Satluj, with famous plains of Sandu, palaces, temples and well- planned residential and market areas. The plain of Sandu was a huge flat grassland of about one and a half miles in circumference. Submergence started in 1954 and thirty-six villages went down in the waters of Satluj. This led to dispossession of people but the process has not stopped. We are still homeless. The feeling of being uprooted ends only when one dies, not before that.’

‘Bhakra Dam gave electricity,’ I try to cheer him up.

‘Yes, but to whom? People have to pay for it, it is not free. Those who lost their homes could never settle again. You have been born in good times and have seen good life. Life at the bottom of the society is very different. People who beg in the streets, they too have a life. You have not seen that. That time almost everyone in the villages was poor.’

‘What has this got to do with Bhakhra Dam?’ I ask confused.

‘We were uprooted and got land somewhere else. It is very difficult to resettle and build a new life after being displaced like this. The land allotted to us was barren. It was so difficult for poor people,’ he says wistfully.

‘But you were rich,’ I persist.

‘We were moneylenders. We were better than them but many times people did not have anything to repay the loans, so we filed cases against them. It was a profession, we lent money on interest and if the person failed to repay we filed cases. That was all.’

I am intrigued, ‘Did you torture people who did not pay, as we read in stories and watch in films?’

He looks at me in shock, ‘No, not like that. It was not like what you see in films, the bad moneylenders. Fifty years back there was lot of poverty. We helped people.’

‘Oh, could you explain, Dadoo?’ But his attention is diverted.

‘I played bansuri [flute] on the banks of streams near our house in Chaunta. We used to take bath in the stream, I learnt swimming there. Soap was only provided to men; even we weren’t allowed to use it everyday. Women used rakh [ash] to clean themselves up.’

‘We witnessed our homes, villages and centuries old town and its pristine charm vanishing into the depths of Gobind Sagar Lake: Old town had temples going back to seventh and eighth centuries. Temples of Rangnath-ji and Murli Manohar were so grand and beautiful.’

I have heard it all before. This part of his life is intact in his memory and he remembers it minutely.

‘Raja’s palace and the Rang Mahal were majestic with its sheesh mahal [hall of mirrors] and murals and artistic splendour. You know Bilaspur was a planned town? At that time it had different areas earmarked for the bazaars, public residences, palaces, offices, gardens and other institutions. There were so many peepal, mango and jamun trees. There were huge gardens with beautiful flowers. Satluj flowed near the groves of fruit trees and vast paddy fields on either sides of the river.’

12

31 May 2010

Today Dadoo again remembered his ancestral home.

‘Chaunta was the most beautiful place in the world till the dam came into being. The land was so fertile that even gold was cheaper in comparison. But you know your grandfather sent me to Bhanoopli to study at the age of four. I had to stay with my mama-ji,’ he said lost in his thoughts.

‘It was good, Dadoo,’ I say trying to pep him up.

‘What good? I was so small, only a baby when I was sent away from my parents. Since the age of four I did not get their love and affection. That time there were no schools in my village. ’

‘Dadoo tell me something about your school,’ I ask interested.

‘My first day at school …,’ he paused and then continued, ‘I had to go alone and I was terrified, you know. I thought that someone will take me to the school on the first day just like when I had gone to the fields in my village for the first time and I had held my father’s hand. But my mama-ji simply told me, “Look, the school is quite near from here and other children are also going, you just tag along with them.”’

‘Oh,’ I murmur as I see the fear in his eyes, the fear of a four-year-old.

‘I was terrified at that time, I really did not know what to do, where I was going, what was happening, what exactly the school is going to be like and I tremblingly followed the four other kids going to the school. There were kids walking behind me too but they were all in a gang, they knew each other, I was the only lone guy travelling to school.’

I had started feeling guilty as it dawned on me that school was a traumatic experience for him. Before I could change the subject he said, ‘I remember when it rained very badly and I was drenched to the bone, shivering in cold, I would dream to get a small glass of hot milk with freshly cooked food upon reaching home. I longed for something hot and warm, but then a dread settled that it should not happen the way it happened yesterday, or what happened every day. Whenever I reached home and asked for food, I was curtly told, “Is this the time for food? No one has eaten yet!” The look in their eyes was not inviting at all and my hunger would instantly die, and once everyone had finished eating, they would serve some stale maize rotis – must have been two-days old,’ he paused.

‘It was dry and hard, I could barely eat it. They used to give me some pickle with the rotis, but it would only have the masala.’

I recalled he told me that Dadi would always serve him a soft, hot maize roti – fresh from the chulah with a blob of white butter – and forced him to eat an extra roti every time.

Now I badly wanted to change the topic.

‘Day after day, I always felt that I did not get enough food to eat in that house, I was always hungry. Every day was a struggle because every day your stomach asked for food,’ he whispered.

‘But, Dadoo, when grandfather came—’

‘—Yes,’ he interrupted, ‘whatever joy I got was when my father came to meet me, he brought pinnis and other eatables made by my mother like khoya and kachori. He would also give me money and buy me little things. But he only stayed there for a day or two.’

‘Dadoo, he had work to do …’ I add.

‘Those were the best days, I would get to eat the desi ghee pinnis, ladoos, panjeeri, mathis and other homemade delicacies including pickle, but the bag of pinnis vanished as father went back, I never got the snacks later.’

I am confused, Dadoo definitely did not have an exciting childhood, he had education but with it there was a separation from his family. He told me that whenever there was a holiday of two-three days he waited for his father to come. He waited every Saturday for someone to come and take him away to the village, he was too small to travel on his own, but no one came. He wanted to run away but was scared of his father. If he ran back to his village and reached home, his mother would be so happy to see him but his father would be angry, and scold him – so he stayed there, sad and lonely.

His father came two or three times in a year to see him and once in a year at the time of annual vacations to take him home. But for him every week was traumatic and every Saturday was painful, every Sunday a torture. He had to stay put, help in the house – bring water, clean utensils, help in cleaning the house, carry chopped woods and do other sundry jobs. Sunday was also the day when he had to hear his cousin’s scathing comments. They made fun of him, ridiculed him. He cried when he was alone, but in front of others he always put on a brave face as if nothing mattered to him.

I am quiet, I have nothing to say. His mind shifts and he speaks highly of his father who educated him.

I retort, ‘How great was your grandfather who made your father an engineer in the year 1920!’

He nods understandingly, ‘For a few years your grandfather had worked in Lahore. He had done his engineering from Lucknow.’

‘Why did he leave the job?’ I ask.

‘Family circumstances – my grandfather died at a very young age, his brothers were also very young. So he had to come back and become a moneylender like his father.’

I am glad he remembers his past clearly.

13

3 June 2010

‘I want you to read this,’ Dadoo says to me.

‘What?’

‘This,’ he hands me a photo copied piece of paper.

‘From where did you get this?’

‘It was in my files.’

I nod and read, ‘Bilaspur lies in a spacious valley through which the Setlej [sic] winds its long and fertilising course, while, in the distance, high and waving hills crowned with villages, stretched for several miles, the snowy peaks of the Himalaya being distinctly visible on the horizon. The valley is extremely fertile and every tropical plant flourishes in richer profusion here, than in most other parts of Hindusthan [sic], as if the great author of all nature has lavished his gifts on it without any reserve. The sun was sinking when I first gazed on this beautiful scene; the river rolled proudly on beneath the garden where I stood, surrounded on every side by a treasury of fragrant flowers, among which, rich orange and citron-trees entangled with jasmines, and groups of magnolias, wafted their exquisite perfume around, in the descending dews. The stars and moon rose one by one, not a breath was felt; the lofty palms rustled, and gently stirred their leaves, as if some spirit breathed upon them; the tress were lighted up by fire flies, and within their deep recesses was heard the soft twittering of the birds and shriller tones of a kind of mantis, which has its dwelling in citron trees; in the distance bright lamp shining through the night pointed out the temple, where loud voices and noisy drums were sounding to the prays of their idols; the fantastic costumes, the dreamy air, all combining together, might well have inspired the coldest spectator to exclaim, as he gazed. This is the very India of which I have dreamed!’

I look at the paper again, it is from Travels in Kashmir and the Punjab by Baron Charles Hugel, a German traveller. He had visited Bilaspur in 1838.

‘How many places do you remember of your past, Dadoo?’ I ask.

‘Una, Bhanupli, Daroli, Anandpur Sahib, Bhabour Sahib – I have relations in all these places. Your grandfather did matric from Una.’

We are quiet again and then he says, ‘Sometimes, I feel that how could I be a good man when I was not even brought up by my parents but always stayed outside in peoples’ houses, at relatives’ homes.’

‘You are a good man, Dadoo.’

He shakes his head, ‘I had no shoulder to cry on and no one to love. In the boarding school during my tenth, I ate clay and limestone. There was no one to tell me that this was wrong. At my mama-ji’s place many a times I was ill-treated and given leftover food.’

I feel sad and give him a hug.

‘I miss my parent’s love and wonder how life would have been different if I had lived with them as my kids have lived with me.’

I don’t know what to say, I keep quiet.

A little later, I try to soothe him and tell him that his parents had done a good job by sending him out of the village because they wanted to educate him.

He looks at me. His eyes full of tears, ‘You will not understand.’

Something snaps in me and I blurt, ‘Dadoo, will you forget us?’

He looks at me in shock, ‘It is not possible to forget your children, one cannot forget one’s children even if one forgets everything else.’

I am deliriously happy.

But this turns out to be an illusion.

14

This is what the experts have to say about Alzheimer’s, ‘This is a disease, an irreversible progressive brain disorder that occurs gradually resulting in memory loss and unusual behaviour, personality changes, and a decline in thinking abilities and these, above all, are all related to the death of cells in the brain and also to the breakdown of connection of these cells, the course of the disease varies from person to person as also does the rate of decline.’

So one day he will forget me too. There is no escape from it. But may be science will find a cure. Recently they have found that it spreads through the brain from the first brain cell affected to the one next to it and then to the next. It damages each connected cell along a predictable path eventually destroying a person’s ability to think and remember.

This disease is changing him everyday. He was so full of life and used to be such a happy person who laughed boisterously. He loved company but now he has restricted his company to his wife and children.

He was always surrounded by friends. After retirement he lost touch with them. Did this hasten the onset of this disease? I wonder.

He asks me innocently when I ask him about his friends, ‘If I do not call them, why do they not call me instead?’

He replies to his own question, ‘May be it is not important for them.’

Though in the last couple of years he has started to call up his long lost friends, tells them to recall old times and invites them to come to his house. But probably it had become too late, too large a gap to be filled.

Dadoo was known for his sense of humour, the house was always filled with laughter, and his wit infected all others in the family. His colleagues, neighbours and friends would often say ‘yeh bahut mazakiya hain’ (he is so witty). He knew how to laugh at himself. But all this has now disappeared; now there is no laughter. We have to make an effort to make him laugh.

Many times I feel as if this is a different person and not our Dadoo.

When I plead ‘smile Dadoo’ he replies, ‘What for?’ He has stopped cracking jokes. Occasionally he makes fun of Mamma’s lack of education or her brother’s attitude.

How we all long for such moments, even Mamma, who used to be so angry at him earlier, now wants him to tease her. We are afraid that this too will stop one day. Just to see him laugh, just to hear him joke is a pleasure but at the same time it is scary. We always feel that it is the last time.

He is becoming oblivious of things around him and we are bystanders.

15

Loneliness is the dominant fear that he has, even though he is forgetting everything. The hopelessness that comes when he feels lonely and scared makes him look so pitiable and pathetic that I just want to close my eyes and shut my mind. It kills me.

We often hear him say, ‘Everything is over. There is no one. What will happen?’ When he says this my heart goes out for him. Sometimes we ignore him, sometimes we lie and at times we snap at him, which is the worst.

Vikram tells me that he sometimes pretends or fakes things just to get attention. I have lost count of how many times during recent months he has called me on the phone and pleaded, ‘Main udas hoon, dil nahin lag raha, tu aaa jaa. [I am sad, I am feeling bored, please come].’

Is this the insecurity of childhood coming back or the trauma of being displaced by the dam that haunts him and makes him a nervous wreck, I do not know but it explains why he always wanted people around him. He has felt insecure since his childhood.

I think that Dadoo created a surrogate family to kill his childhood fears and scare of being uprooted. He felt that he never got the love and affection that he should have received during childhood from his parents and near and dear ones. He was an outsider wherever he went and that weighed on him. Even his brother and sister considered him an outsider. This disconnect remained with him throughout and he tried to fill the void by having people around him.

The lonely time that he spent in his formative years made him long for affection and so he started showering affection on others. When he grew up he started to help strangers and tried to win smiles whenever he could.

He helped people financially and emotionally. Probably this was also the reason he helped the underprivileged – the beggars and coolies. He talked to them as if he was a close relation. In his job he was always willing to join hands with his colleagues.

But everyone around him got busy with their own life including his children, who left for their education and then jobs and finally got busy in their own families. This increased his loneliness.

I remember, he would stand in the balcony of our house in Solan and call out to people on the road to come and have a cup of tea. He would meet acquaintances in the market and complain to them that they had stopped coming to his house, he would invite them to have lunch and dinner. Whenever he met our friends he complained about their fathers having forgotten him. He would ask them to tell their parents that he was remembering them.

He would visit all those shops where he used to go for years, and taunt the shopkeepers for not recognizing him. He would call his sister, old colleagues and other near and distant relatives and people from his native village and scold them for not being in touch.

All this had started about six years back. He would sit and brood. Whenever I asked him what he was thinking he would say, ‘Look where I have made this house, so far away from my native place. I am a pardesi [foreigner] here.’ Then he would start remembering old friends, colleagues, acquaintances and relatives and wonder about their whereabouts. We did not see it coming nor did we understand what was happening to him. We either ignored this or snapped at him.

He would call me everyday and say, ‘Keep coming every weekend to meet me, you must come. It gets chirpy when you come. Raunak ho jati hai, aa jaya karo. Why don’t you take leave? You must take long leave and stay with me.’ He called Vikram, Deepak and Mala didi too and repeated the same to them.

And when we went to Solan he would ask us, ‘How many days’ leave have you taken? How long you will stay?’ His face fell when we said that we had come for two or three days! He was saddened and the joy of seeing his children just vanished. He was going into depression slowly and we failed to notice that!

16

Oh, Dadoo! How I want to assure you that we will be with you always. But will you understand now? The irony is that when you could have understood, we did not understand you! I tried to escape a visit to Solan, though I did not succeed often. I wanted to avoid travelling for hours to and fro in a day. The more you craved for my attention and sympathy and pleaded with me to come; the more irritated I got. It is only now I realize that your pleas were not yours, it was the illness making you behave like this. I am so ashamed of my behaviour towards you in the past: I ignored your requests and questions. So many times I would hurriedly put down the phone or ask you to act sensibly. And when I was with you in Solan, I escaped to my room so as not to listen to your endless banter.

Now I know that he suffers from a mental disorder that is destroying him bit by bit. But a constant helplessness and anger at my failure to help him frustrates me. This disease has reduced a healthy, happy and intelligent individual into a vegetable.

It is more painful when he does not understand that we have tried and we are trying all possible combinations of medicines and that we have taken him to so many specialist doctors at different places. He does not remember. I feel wretched when he says, ‘Do you know any good doctor, my mind is not right. Can you take me to a doctor? I want my full check-up done.’

When we tell him not to worry, he says, ‘It is not in my hands. I worry because I think that I will forget. I will not remember to tell you that I need a doctor. This anxiety of losing my memory makes me restless and I am always exhausted.’

It is a nightmare that does not end.

17

Imagination and memory go together. When memory fades and disappears, imagination goes too. And all that remains is ‘nothing’ – a gaping black hole.

These days he spends his time searching for papers of the land that he thinks he bought, bank accounts that he thinks he opened and the important files that he has lost. His brain is working all the time, trying to find the things that never were but which are real for him. This search is futile as there is nothing to find. But that is what we think. He thinks totally differently. He stresses himself to remember things, but the more he puts himself under pressure the more these move away from him. It is a chase that is only in his mind.

Only grace is, he forgets what he was searching for and we can divert his attention. But sometimes it continues for an entire day or night.

So many things I understand now. He had stopped reading slowly and gradually. First he left the books, then magazines and then newspaper. He could not connect to things. He stopped watching TV. No films, no serials and finally no news. The last thing he stopped was gardening, nurturing his plants – the love of his life, his passion. Does he know that he loved to read books, the classics; that he could never miss daily news bulletin and that he could not live without spending hours with his plants every morning and evening.

What should a person do when his memory does not hold even for a few minutes? When he does not remember the last sentence that he spoke? He is losing his vocabulary. He reads a word and then wonders what it means. Same is with the plants and gardens that he nurtured like babies. Now he does not recognize the plants, from where he brought them, when will they flower? It frustrates him to no end.

Whenever I browse the Internet and look for the latest news on Alzheimer’s I get to read alarming stuff such as this, ‘Impairment of senses is common in Alzheimer’s. The ability of people with Alzheimer’s to interpret what they see, hear, taste, feel or smell declines or changes, even though the sense organs may still be intact. The Alzheimer’s patient needs periodic evaluation by a physician for any changes in the senses that may be correctable through glasses, dentures, hearing aids or other treatments. Patients may also experience a number of changes in visual abilities. Visual agnosia is a condition in which patients lose the ability to comprehend visual images. Although there is nothing wrong physically with the eyes, Alzheimer’s patients may no longer be able to accurately interpret what they see in the brain, also their sense of perception and death may be altered. These changes can cause safety concerns. … A loss or decrease in smell often accompanies Alzheimer’s. Patients may experience loss of sensation or may no longer be able to interpret feelings of heat, cold or discomfort. They may also lose their sense of taste as their judgment declines. They may also place dangerous or inappropriate things in their mouths. People with Alzheimer’s may have normal hearing but they may lose the ability to accurately interpret what they hear. This may result in confusion or over stimulation.’

I sometimes wonder whether Dadoo knows how much we suffer! May be in a different way but we suffer many times more than him. Watching him helplessly lose his mind piece by piece is unbearable. When his child-like eyes look at me, I know he is seeking assurance and security that everything will be fine, my heart bleeds. We worry about his future and also about our future without him. In some moments of extreme agony I feel that the silence of death would be less painful, and definitely less torturous both for us and for him. Sometimes I feel guilty for this thought but sometimes I don’t. But then is death in our hands?

All small things which were routine, and trivial but part of his normal life are disappearing one after the other, like asking the chartered accountant about his income tax returns; going to the college to enquire whether his medical reimbursement has come; going to the bank; trying to locate a gardener; buying vegetables; calling the plumber; rushing to bring bread; dhania; juice from the shop downstairs; and saying hello to acquaintances passing by on the road. The very essence of being useful, of doing something and the sense of being alive has vanished. How very important it is for a person to be of use in a family and how humiliated one feels when this ability is lost.

He has stopped reading the post and stopped going to the post office. For years he, on his own without telling us, maintained small savings accounts of all of us in the post office. Now there are no more deposits. He has stopped following up the court cases involving land purchased by him which was encroached by others. These kept him engaged for years after his retirement.

Dadoo, who would stomp forward with gusto and energy to do something new and exciting every now and then, is no more there. Oh, how I miss him: He is still here but I miss him so very much!

18

18 July 2010

There are days when he is so different and we have delightful conversation, without anxiety and despondency.

‘Is there a destiny? Fate?’ I ask.

‘These terms are invented by humans. There is nothing. What is destiny? Look at this plant there it will prosper if it gets proper rain and sunshine and if there is no rain it will wither away. Where is destiny in this? What is the role of destiny in Nature?’

‘But humans have called this destiny,’ I say unsure.

He shakes his head, ‘There is no such thing. It is Nature’s rhythm that makes the world move … world is … without destiny. People say meri kismat hi kharab hai [I have a rotten luck], what is kismat but a name given to what happens, the chances of life. It is all a chance … and we call this destiny. If something good happens we say we are lucky and if something bad happens we say we are unlucky. Lucky and unlucky are the words coined by us. Happening is independent of this. We forget that we did not create the world; it is Nature that has created us. We are not bigger than Nature.’

‘But still, Dadoo—’

He interrupts me, ‘—Lord Rama died, Lord Krishna died. This is the fate of a human being! Everyone dies. People call their heroes God. Those who did something great were made into Gods. There is no God in physical form, God is matter of our thinking. Idea and thought of God gives you support. There is no God sitting somewhere waving his magic wand. Our thought has created God. It is a creation of mind.’

I am quiet, trying to analyze, he goes on, ‘There is no God. Only Nature. Yes, there is our internal self, our conscience that tells us that we have done something wrong – that can be called God, but that too is not a separate entity; that is also us, if we listen to this inner voice. When you pray and say to yourself that I have to do good, that is God. God is not a physical form.’

‘Everyone has fears. It is this fear of punishment when we do wrong that scares us. Those who cannot think deep, and those who cannot realize the truth, believe in a punishing God. God is inside our soul, whatever we speak to our self, we speak to God. Remember our conscience is God. We must listen to our inner voice. Sense of good and bad is God.’

‘But—’

‘—We say it is God’s creation when kids are born. But look at the plants and trees, they too are born and then die. Humans are like them only. No difference. It is Nature. It is a cycle which has to be completed.’

Dadoo sees God in a totally different way: Now as I write about his understanding of God, I realize that my inability to believe in a physical form of God comes from him. My idea of what religion is was shaped by him when I was a child, which I had not realized until now.

I had never seen Dadoo pray; he was always busy, always on a mission and never had time for prayers. Mamma, however, would pray daily but I don’t think any of us took her prayers seriously. In fact, she too is a very liberal kind of believer. We children were never forced or taught to pray.

I vividly remember when we came back to India from Nigeria in the mid-1980s, Mamma had become a devotee of a baba. She would always be attending kirtans and talking with her friends about chamatkaars (miracles). I don’t think that Dadoo ever paid heed to this and neither did we. And then on a holiday we travelled to the baba’s ashram in South India. It must be Mamma’s doing; Deepu was hardly ten-year-old, I was about sixteen, and Vikram chose to stay back at our grandparents’ house.

I remember the huge temple complex. We stayed there for three days. Mamma and I slept in a hall meant only for ladies; and Dadoo and Deepak stayed in a separate hall for men. We used to meet in the morning in front of the small bakery where we had our breakfast. This was because Deepu and I had rebelled against the regular food; it was pizza and bread-jam for us.

The three of us, Dadoo, Deepak and I, joked and talked lightly about the ‘owner’ of the ashram – the baba – while we munched our fast food. Dadoo laughed while Mamma was irritated. She ignored him but she was upset that Deepak and I were hand-in-glove with him. Mamma used to be in the temple the entire day waiting for baba’s darshan, while the three of us loitered in the complex and outside in the bazaar.

Dadoo, a very gregarious person, was full of curiosity. He asked questions about the baba to everyone – other devotees, the staff at the ashram, the shopkeepers in the market and the local people – and tried to reason with them. Every evening we would happily tell Mamma all the negative things that we had discovered during the day. I remember that the locals did not believe in baba, some of them even proclaimed that he was a fake but they were happy with the business that baba was bringing to them. Mamma would be mad at us but we would always laugh it away.

19

Mamma used to perform puja every evening; she recited a few mantras and then sang different aartis dedicated to different gods. She narrated the divine powers of baba to us all every other day and would tell us how vibhuti, sindoor, dry fruits, toffees, diamond rings and letters materialized in the homes of devotees. She also spoke about the amrit (nectar) that appeared on the photos of baba. Dadoo would listen to all these stories with amusement. At times he would ridicule Mamma for her blind faith and unscientific viewpoints. Their arguments would always end with Dadoo saying, ‘Why doesn’t your baba give us a diamond ring?’ We children wanted toffees and chocolates. Mamma would look at us in disgust and say, ‘Lalchi logon ko nahin milta hai [greedy people don’t get it].’

Dadoo would perform puja on Diwali and ashtmi without fail. I think he did it for Mamma. He would sit with chandi (silver) coins in his hands, and say to Mamma, ‘I understand that money is important in life and it is very valuable, but it is not so important that we perform these rituals with all the tikkas, amrits and mantras. Yeh sara panditon ka khel hai [all this has been devised by the priests]. It is because they want money from others so they have made money a thing to be revered.’ At this moment Mamma would glare at him and he would perform all the rituals amusingly, laughing in between. It was fun time for us but not so much for Mamma.

On Durga Ashtmi when small girls were called for the feast, Dadoo washed their feet, put tilak on their forehead and then gave them halwa, poori, boiled salted chana and money. Dadoo loved this, not because of the ritual but the affection he had for these small girls. But Mamma would often have to remind Dadoo to focus on the ritual, because he would always start chatting up with the girls – asking them their names and what they studied. Mamma was always in a hurry to finish the ritual, while Dadoo wanted lots of time to talk to the kids.

On one such occasion he asked me, ‘You know why people make these girls goddesses and worship them?’

’No.’

‘It is their guilt that makes them do this.’

I was surprised and blankly stared at him. He nodded vigorously and explained, ‘Our social system gives more importance to boys and so the so-called great religious men have invented this façade for a day to show that girls are also important. You will get to hear many religious explanations of this ritual but all those are rubbish. Our society discriminates against girls everyday and this one day is the token demonstration to hide the guilt.’

I did not understand this since I was never discriminated against but he was so right.

In the past few years Mamma goaded him to attend satsangs, kirtans and other such events. I asked him what he says in his prayer. He said, ‘I pray for the welfare of my children,’ and then added, ‘though I feel like a trespasser-undeserving and unfaithful. Because who am I to ask for help from a God I don’t believe in, in a temple I know nothing about. He did that for some months but was never satisfied and then he left all this. There were too many things that disturbed him. He said, ‘The more a group pretends to be religious the more their hearts are not into it.’

For Dadoo religion meant humanity, service of poor and needy. I remember, on so many occasions he would specially go to the market to give money, food and even clothes to beggars that he had promised a day before. His motto was that if you gave ten per cent of your savings to these people, you did not need a God to look up to.

He always said that no mantra, bhakti or kirtan and squatting in temples can give you joy and satisfaction as much as giving things to those who needed these most: Labourers, maids, the balloon man, the gol gappa man, the pheri wallahs crossing our house on the road were treated with sandwiches, soft drinks, cakes and biscuits. It amused me how he hung around these people, laughed and joyfully enjoyed their company and whenever Mamma reasoned that it was better to give them food he would reply, ‘Food they can have anywhere but no one gives them these things. They too should taste these delicacies.’

20

I think one reason, and a very strong one, for his definite belief system when it came to religion was that he was never indoctrinated. At the age of four he left home so his views were his own, he was not swayed by religious sentiments of anyone. Moreover, I do not think that even my grandparents were very religious.

Religion, especially belief in a personal God, was not important for him. I don’t think he ever asked for favours from any God. He did not also thank God for what he had got. He believed in work and that was his worship. Being a mathematician he had a logical mind and was not bothered about faith and power of religion.

A very famous baba came to Shimla in 2009. There was a lot of excitement in my house; my in-laws too came for his darshan and so had my mother – all devout fans of the baba. The day baba had to come to Shimla both Mamma and Rohit’s mother left for the temple where baba had to stay. The duty to take Dadoo and Rohit’s father for darshans fell on us. Rohit and I thought that the best place would be the airport where baba was to land. It will be quick and easy, so all of us moved towards the Jubbarhatti Airport, some twenty-four kilometres from Shimla.

Here is the conversation that took place between Dadoo and Pita-ji (my father-in-law). It was unnerving for me as much as it amused Rohit.

Pita-ji, ‘Verma Sahib we are very lucky to be graced by baba.’

‘Why so?’ Dadoo asks.

Pita-ji looks at him in surprise, ‘Baba is coming to Shimla and we will be able to have his darshan.’

‘Oh, but don’t you go to his ashram every year?’ Dadoo says unaffected by the madness surrounding the baba.

‘That is different; baba’s presence here in Shimla means we are all blessed. Moreover, you know he is not well but still he has come.’

‘What is wrong?’ Dadoo asks curiously.

‘He has gone through a very tough time, he had a hip replacement and he can’t walk and then he has high cholesterol,’ explains Pita-ji.

‘How will a handicapped man take care of others when he can’t take care of himself?’ Dadoo comments.

Rohit giggles. I am so tensed I will burst.

Pita-ji glowers. Dadoo looks back innocently and then adds, ‘I mean what kind of baba is he, if he has become sick himself.’

Pita-ji is quiet for some time. I can understand. No one till now must have talked about baba like this in front of him. After sometime Pita-ji says, ‘He has taken all the misery and disease of other people onto him.’

Dadoo looks at him aghast and then looks at me for help and whispers, ‘He really believes in all this nonsense?’ I pinch him hard. Rohit hears him and laughs aloud. Dadoo has a friend now, no one can stop him. He ignores me totally and says, ‘Do you know he is a dhongi [fake],’ I pinch him harder, terrified now.

Pita-ji is in a shock, he doesn’t know what to say and Dadoo goes on. ‘You should not believe in these babas,’ he explains patiently. After a few seconds of shock Pita-ji retorts back, ‘Baba is not like that, all the other babas are dhongis. I tell my wife not to believe them.’

‘How can you say that?’ Dadoo asks innocently.

Pita-ji snaps angrily, ‘Of course, I know. They are all dhongis but our baba is not one of them.’

Dadoo says, ‘If I say that others are all true and this baba is dhongi.’

I am definitely alarmed I pinch him hard and hiss, ‘Chup ho jao, chup ho jao [please keep quiet].’

He laughs and looks at Rohit for support who, of course, gives him with a smiling face, ‘It is all in the head because you believe in him so you think he is true, the others believe in the other babas so they think they are true. You cannot say which one is a dhongi and which one is not and I must tell you, all of them are dhongis.’

I can feel Pita-ji’s anger vibrating loud and clear, no one has the guts to speak in front of him like this and then Dadoo goes on further, ‘I am surprised at you.’

I am so alarmed now that I loudly say, ‘Dadoo, chup ho jao, bahut ho gaya [keep quiet. Enough is enough]! ’

‘What? What?’ he says innocently. ‘It is an open discussion or do I have to keep quiet because yeh tere sasurji hai [he is your father-in-law]?’ He says laughingly, ‘He is also my friend and colleague of years.’ He looks smilingly at Pita-ji who glares back at him.

This frightens me and thankfully makes Dadoo quiet. No one speaks for the rest of the journey. We reach the airport; and realize there are about hundred people there already. Dadoo doesn’t like our quiet company and leaves to mingle with the devotees. He is having a good time conversing with them, while Pita-ji is standing aloof.

About two hours have passed and the baba has still not come, probably Dadoo gets bored because he picks a fight with about four-five volunteers; Dadoo is shouting at them and they are all shouting at him.

‘What is wrong?’ I intervene anxiously.

Dadoo is angry, ‘I am telling them that there are so many old people here, old women and men, who have come to have darshan and they should be given priority to stand in front. Look at all these children and young ladies and the seva dal people, they are taking the best positions. The old people are being brushed aside. Do they believe less than these people in front? Isn’t it our duty to take care of the elderly who have been standing for hours.’ He is spitting fire, I try to pacify him.

The seva dal members are angry too. I look around. Dadoo is right: youngsters between the age group of ten and twenty-five are lined on one side in the front queue. It is clear that all of them are children of the volunteers, on the other side are middle-aged men in scarves – the volunteers themselves. The elderly people, about fifteen to twenty, including Pita-ji are somewhere at the back, not visible.

Dadoo again starts shouting, ‘Old people can’t see properly, they have weak eye sight, with so much of difficulty they have come here, is it not right to allow them to stand in front?’

I pacify him with great difficulty and bring him to where Pita-ji is standing, worried why Dadoo is fighting with people. Thankfully after about fifteen minutes baba’s plane lands and his car crosses us. All three of us, Dadoo, Rohit and I could see him closely, the people gathered around are pushing and pulling each other. After baba left I ask Pita-ji, ‘Did you see baba, Pita-ji?’ He shakes his head, ‘There was too much rush, I could not see him,’ he says with sadness.

I feel bad for Pita-ji and then Dadoo throws the bombshell, ‘You are such a genuine devotee of his but you could not see him, and we the frauds, we saw him. Yeh kaisa Bhagwan hai. Mere samajh se bahar hai [I fail to understand what kind of God is this].’ In all the chaos and noise thankfully Pita-ji doesn’t hear him. Dadoo says to Rohit, ‘Beta now you have to manage the darshan of baba for your father. It is important for him, he believes in him, find a way out.’

21

5 October 2010

Today when Dadoo came from the market, he was shattered. In fact I was thinking of calling him on his cell phone because he was out for a considerable amount of time, more than two hours, which was unusual. As Mamma handed him a glass of juice, he said, ‘Something very bad happened today. I lost my way.’

His hands were trembling, I came forward and clutched them.

‘What do you mean, Dadoo?’ I asked, my heart sinking. Has the day come that now he will not be allowed to go alone?

‘I didn’t know where I was. I stood frozen at the Chowk, I did not know where to go, where our house was,’ he whimpered.

‘Don’t panic, Dadoo,’ I said.

‘For fifty years I have been living here. I know every inch of Solan but somehow everything went blank. The place where I stood did not fit into my mental map.’

‘What happened?’ whispered Mamma.

He looked at her in utter misery.

‘You should have asked someone,’ I said quickly.

He was too much in shock to reply. He didn’t even know how he had reached home. We can’t imprison him in the house, I think frantically, I will place the home address in his purse.

I have so many happy memories of him carrying bagfuls of fruit and sweets whenever he came from the market. He would ask us what we wanted before leaving the house. He would always remember the list, and now he forgot the way back home. This is so frightening.

In the evening he brought the telephone directory and asked me to tell him about one Vineet Sharma. His name and telephone number was underlined. He was so agitated and anxious because he had forgotten who this person was.

‘You must be familiar with him, Dadoo,’ I tried to assure him.

He shook his head, ‘I don’t know who this man is and why I have underlined his name.’

After that, every now and then he showed me his diary that he had maintained for years and asked me to tell him about the people and few events recorded there. He just did not know who they were and why he had written their telephone numbers. This was so tough for us to explain because we ourselves did not know most of these persons.

A few years back he had started telling us that he forgets names. He would tell us that he forgot the names of vegetables in the market and had to gesture to the shopkeeper to make him understand what he wanted. He said that though the name was on the tip of his tongue yet it eluded him. We asked him to calm down and said that he would recall it later. We thought he was needlessly taking a lot of stress and that it was no big deal to forget things occasionally. It never occurred to us that it was the beginning of a painful process.

Now he just blankly stares at those names and numbers in his diaries and telephone directory, not knowing who or what those symbols mean. These are not only a mystery for him but a painful reminder that once he knew what these meant and the utter horror of the catastrophe they may lead to.

22

28 October 2010

Dadoo comes to me with an article published in the Indian Express on memory loss and brain haemorrhage. It says that one reason for this could be deficiency of Vitamin B-12. He wants me to read it.

He looks at me. ‘This article is on me. Everything written here is what I feel. This Alzheimer’s means memory loss, dimag ki bimari [illness of the mind].’

I am quiet.

‘May be I have vitamin deficiency,’ he says hopefully.

‘We will get the test done,’ I tell him lovingly. I do not want to upset him by telling that he is already taking B-12 injections since a couple of weeks.

‘Look, have you read this? Everything here relates to me, vitamin deficiency, Alzheimer’s, weakness, old age, all symptoms are mine,’ he says with a tremble. I take the article from his hands.

‘No, no, I need this cutting, I will show it to the doctor,’ he murmurs unconsciously.

‘So will I,’ I assure him.

‘Tell him that I have three problems: itching all over body, gas in stomach and memory loss. Rest is all fine.’

I nod.

‘Will they do all tests? Will the tests tell everything? Is there a complete test for brain?’

I nod again.

‘Then it is fine. Let us get the tests done and then we will get to know.’

‘Yes, Dadoo.’

He clutches his head with both his hands, ‘This is where everything is wrong, all is wrong inside this head. I have to show this,’ he mumbles pitifully.

23

20 November 2010

Things are going from bad to worse. I have been in Solan for the last five days and frankly I could not bear the agony my Dadoo is going through; the raw pain, the wilderness in his eyes makes my heart squeeze and all of us have become a bunch of liars.

It was so torturous watching him from six in the morning till ten at night: It must have been extremely frightening for him – the flashes of some specific memory and the muddled up logic in his mind, the anger and the frustration of not knowing what is happening. Can I bear any more?

He has now started beating himself up; the more angry he gets the more he hits himself and it has become so difficult for us to handle him. He gets so angry with Vikram as if he hates him, but after a while the guilt later takes over, he cries, begs for forgiveness and the remorse eats him up.

He curses Vikram and Mamma, and has started saying that he will run away from the house. For the first time he told Rohit that a power of attorney should be made and he would transfer all his powers to Vikram and Mamma and he would leave, ‘I am going mad, there is nothing left in me, I am a useless man, you should all carry on now. I can give no advice and I can no longer take care of you. You should all forget me.’ After this outburst he is all buttoned up. But then his mood shifts like a pendulum and again he enquires about land, about money and then again his mood shifts and he gets angry telling us that we no longer take his advice.

He keeps on asking, ‘Why wasn’t I told about … Is it because I am no more important?’ and then his mood once again shifts into depression.

Mamma and Vikram are having a tough time; frankly we don’t know how to handle him. Everything is being shattered and there is helplessness around, despite our best efforts. Rohit has advised that we take the help of the Internet and gather more information on how to handle patients suffering from this disease.

At times he keeps on blabbering and asking the same things repeatedly but when you patiently try to make him understand or for that matter advise him not to take stress, he just ignores you. With him, during these periods, nothing registers. There is so much anger in him that it makes me scare stiff. It takes hours for Vikram and Mamma to make him eat something and take medicine. It is so heart-rending to see an independent man cry like this.

He is going through a series of emotions – suspicion, anger, hopelessness, guilt, pity, escapism, weeping bouts and then in the end helplessness. Life is so unbelievable.

I can imagine how very difficult it must be for Dadoo but what can I do to help? There has to be some way, a proper way to handle him. I never thought that this illness would be so bad but now I realize that he was right – losing your mind is the biggest and the worst disease in the world because no will power can make you go through it. When the brain doesn’t work the question of having a will power doesn’t arise. Will power is only with regard to circumstances and physical ailments, without a mind will is nill.

I always believed that losing your memory couldn’t be so bad because there is no physical pain; you have people to look after you, to give you proper food, to bathe you, to hug and love you, to treat you as the most precious person on earth; it doesn’t matter if you forget the name of places, of things or for that matter your wife, your children because at least they know who you are. But how wrong I was – losing one’s mind is so difficult, physical pain is nothing in comparison to it. I just want to close my eyes and open them only when everything is in place – either my father has forgotten every single detail; or he is no longer carrying this burden of a useless body.

24

1 December 2010

He has started crying regularly now; mostly in front of Mamma and no one else. And this sobbing period usually happens early in the morning. How helpless a man becomes?

When I asked Mamma does he say anything, she nodded, ‘He says, “I am no more a human being now. I have lost everything, my mind is no more. I don’t think I will live for long, we should call our children.”’

My heart fills with pain and the ache is so deep, it hurts but I too am helpless. It is getting difficult to explain things to him. Normality is losing itself in the folds of this disease. Oh, when will this transitional phase be over – the stage in which an intelligent man gets converted to an incapable one. How crude this sounds but isn’t it a fact? Many times I wonder how very agonizing it must be for him as he sees himself slipping away.

It is natural for him to be angry, irritable and not to focus on any materialistic thing or what we call means to stay busy – TV, books, newspapers, yoga, music, films, etc. He cares a damn because there is something so strong which keeps him busy analyzing his mind. Sometimes he asks questions, he wants to know what is happening inside his brain but alas we have no answers.

25

29 December 2010

Earlier he would cry only in Mamma’s presence and she would tell us about it. But now it is open, all the reserve, the dignity that he has is dwindling as he breaks down in front of his children. I can understand his agony, the agony of a parent.

Oh, how I curse the perversity of this disease as he breaks down many times during the day. Everything that made him a whole person is leaving him bit by bit. If you are able to divert his attention, the weeping stops, he forgets his worries but you are stuck in his despondent mood and get bogged down by the strain.

Every patient with dementia is different, that is what the doctors say, my Dadoo, because of his natural energy, is one of the worst cases to handle. When he is hyper-active, he opens all the suitcases, searches all the cupboards and looks even under the bed to locate his files! All the time he blabbers – I am gone, I have lost everything, what will happen to me? We can’t match his pace as he runs up and down the stairs and continuously walks from one room to the other. He talks throughout the night and barely sleeps.

When you see him from a distance, he looks completely normal. It is when you start talking to him that you realize how lost he is. A bright smile lights up his face only when he sees one of his children whom he still recognizes.

He loses interest in everything from his precious plants to his friends, to the market and to food. The only thing that he still remembers is stress, bombarding questions on what is wrong, what will happen and how will it be done, it drives me crazy. Later I feel guilty for my impatience but it is so difficult listening to him pretentiously or casually.

Despite his failing memory he feels that he is a burden on his wife and children. He keeps saying, ‘Forget about me, there is nothing left in me now, it is better to die.’ His love for us sometimes wears us down.

There is no check on his emotions. Anger, fear, happiness and despair tumble over each other. He shifts gears suddenly and you are caught in a tornado of emotions trying to adjust your mental equilibrium.

This pathetic condition seeps into you unconsciously. Howsoever you may try to reason you cannot grow out of this sinking feeling: What he was and what has he become? Oh! Why?

26

We humans are so strange. We think that everything bad like a disease and death will strike not us but others. Or is this Nature’s mechanism to make us escape the agony before something actually becomes a reality.

Off and on I had read about Alzheimer’s but it never occurred to me that this harrowing disease would strike my father. My grandmother too had suffered memory loss. No one took her to the hospital. That time everyone in the family thought that it was the side-effect of some medicine given to her by a quack when she had gone into a deep shock following a robbery in our house. However, she lived in a joint family and it was easier to manage her.

Dadi was always so much fun; she was both an adult and a child at the same time and was more of a friend to us than a grandmother. We would share our secrets with her; and often ask for her advice. But dementia was slowly spreading its roots in her brain; she would often forget what we were discussing. But all this did not trouble us, may be because we had not seen her transformation from her earlier self to this individual who would say, ‘I want to go home. Why am I staying with these people, who are these people?’

She had forgotten who her sons, daughters, grandchildren were. But she had not forgotten her husband whom she respectfully called Lala-ji. Oh how much fun we used to have with her. We would always make up imaginary wishes and seek our Dadi’s help – from seeking permission to marry to fulfilling little desires like eating out in a restaurant, buying new pair of shoes and going for a holiday. We would ask her to go and say to our grandfather ‘I love you’, we had become bolder, knowing that by the time she reached him she would forget what she was to say. Amidst giggles and guffaws we would all watch her going to him and then just saying, ‘Aur theek ho? Maine kuch kehna tha par bhool gayi [Are you all right? I wanted to say something but I forgot].’

Frankly for us children this was not a disease and neither did it appear to be something as heart wrenching, as it is now. The reasons could be multiple. Now it is a relationship of a parent and an adult child. Dadi lived inside the house surrounded by people in a joint family and she was not the bread winner of the family. Hers was a secure world where she did not have to take major decisions herself. With Dadoo it is different, being head of the family and the eldest male in the extended family he has always been the main force. And losing control of his thoughts and actions is more devastating for him.

27

Dementia is a death sentence in its worst form. Once the verdict is announced, there is no appeal. Does it just happen or is it God’s doing? Is it His punishment? But then what has my Dadoo done to deserve this? He has harmed no one, he is not a corrupt person, he is a good husband and a good father.

Then, why?

I could never gauge the depth of destruction caused by dementia: it has no cure and this brings about endless hopelessness. Moreover, it also shows how selfish and cynical one becomes.

It makes you lose your cool: You are filled with guilt, remorse and loathe; and questions arise about your own integrity towards your loved ones.

My father is my hero, he made me what I am today. I could not have started writing without his support and encouragement. I have been showered with love, affection, security and freedom – both of expression and otherwise – and I have always felt proud of my dad. A father who was my friend, with whom I could go for picnics, shopping, do cooking, talk politics and even philosophy. I would sit for hours with him discussing worldly affairs, and exchanging novels and their stories.

But now things have changed, we do not discuss much. He can’t because of his disease, I can’t because of my limitations. I always thought that I would love Dadoo till death and nothing would ever change that. But it does. I get a headache if I sit with him for long and it really fills me with guilt that I am helpless and can do nothing for the man who has done everything for me.

I think the disease had already started to take him in its fold about five or six years back. He succeeded in not showing what was happening to him, but more than that we failed to notice that he was becoming sick. We termed it as mere memory loss. But it is not just a simple memory failure. You lose your ability to differentiate between things, making up your mind becomes a stressful exercise. You can no longer co-relate and organize and gradually stop comprehending things altogether. A couple of years back Dadoo was obsessed with a few things which, every time when we went to meet him, he would stress upon. We thought he was becoming cynical or he was bored, or it had become a habit of his to feed on stress. May be, if we had started the treatment then, its growth could have been arrested.

One of the topics that he used to talk about was his papers and files. All his life being meticulous, organized and planned, he had kept every paper: income tax; his retirement papers; his property details, even those which were sold some twenty years back; his children’s PAN numbers; PPF accounts; FDs; bills; house taxes; and court cases. But then this beast attacked and he started getting insecure that either his papers had got lost or somebody had misplaced them. He would sit for hours with his files writing things in his diary – duplicating financial stuff – but I just concluded that it was boredom and stress that made him do this. Recently I came across three or four such diaries, in which he had written account numbers, date of maturity and the PPF account details and so many other details of numbers and folios; but now they lay abandoned as there is no one to look at them.

The second thing he concentrated on was Reader’s Digest subscription. He kept on writing to them regularly, buying books because one day he thought Vikram would win a prize. For nearly two years, it became an obsession with him and sometimes a matter of life and death if we did not read the letter from Reader’s Digest immediately. He must have spent more than forty thousand rupees on these books, and everyone in the family felt that they were cheating him and making him buy books so that he could move to the next stage of the lottery and the next and the next. Thankfully a year back Dadoo lost all interest and forgot all about it.

The third thing that he paid attention to was property. From his initial days Dadoo had a knack of buying and selling land. This is how he made money, he was a financial wizard. Whatever little money he saved in Nigeria some thirty years ago was wisely invested into property. He would sell the property at the right time and buy more in return and this game of buying and selling would go on. Presently, he has become fanatic about these lands, their cost price, their market value, money invested by selling them, prospective buyers, their safety with regards to documentation, demarcation and subsequently fencing, barbing and caretaking.

We had ignored these signals. In fact we had started getting irritated with him and counselled him to have a more positive outlook and lead a stress-free life. Several times he said that he forgets names, and people but we pooh-poohed him, insisting that we too would sometimes forget things. He would throw tantrums quite often and slowly I started noticing that he would call up and repeat things; but this too I ignored.

For months he was paranoid about his throat. He went to numerous doctors for diagnosis. He took an avid interest in all the medicines related to throat and cough – on TV, in newspapers and on billboards. It was a chronic problem for Dadoo with no cure. We did not know then that having imaginary ailments is a symptom of dementia.

Some four years back I had called up both my brothers and told them that there was something seriously wrong with Dadoo and that we had to take him to the doctor. He had told me that he had forgotten the name of sweets and vegetables like onions, ginger and potatoes. He said that when he went to shops his mind became blank and he could not remember the names of the things he wanted to buy, so he ended up pointing towards the things he could recognize.

Both of them said that he was just depressed and had become an old cynical person, but of course that was not the case. And when I did take it seriously I could do nothing about it, because I had fallen ill and it took me two years to get cured.

However, Vikram seriously contemplated quitting his job and coming back to take care of him since his condition was deteriorating. Whenever this was discussed before Dadoo, his reasonability would return with full force and he would say, ‘You don’t have to come, I will come and stay with you. This is not the right decision. You have a job to do.’ But whenever he did go to stay with Vikram for a month or so, it became torturous for Mamma since Dadoo could not go out because he wasn’t familiar with the ways in Chandigarh; and inside the house he would do nothing – no TV, no books, and after a few days he would start pestering Mamma to return. Thankfully Vikram got a sabbatical for two years to compile a coffee table book on culinary traditions in the Himalayas and came to stay with them in Solan.

I vividly remember during this time his overwhelmingly affectionate greetings whenever any of us visited him. He would be so excited just like a child hugging and kissing us when we arrived; and would become extremely depressed and sad when we left. It burdened us with remorse. He had started getting obsessed with his children, their phone calls, their visits, their jobs. No one else mattered to him.

I feel miserable when I recall that I failed to empathize with him. When he went into his spells of depression, instead of understanding him, I got angry and snapped at him. I asked him to stop being irrational and illogical and when I could not succeed I simply escaped. I just did not have the patience and energy.

And then slowly he started saying, ‘Do not believe in me, I may be wrong, do not take me seriously.’ There was so much suffering when he said this. My Dadoo whom I loved the most had started withdrawing himself. He was always there for me but when he needed me to guide him in this chaos, I was not there mostly.

He badly wanted to call up his lost friends. The more he called and talked about old times and invited them over, the more irritated Mamma got. She would say, ‘They have never called us, so why do you?’ The disease was urging him to link with his past. Perhaps he wanted to remind them that he was still alive. He wanted to connect, to get some assurance that he still knew some people who knew who he was. It was so important for him but we thought it was one of his idiosyncrasies.

Will Dadoo become like Dadi, the cutie pie that she was but also the angry lady she would turn into on rare occasions. Chachi-ji took care of her day in and day out but she hated her the most. Of course, everyone knew that she was a helpless woman nevertheless I used to think many times why her hatred was focused only on chachi-ji. Now I have come to know that it was also the doing of this dreadful disease.

Yes, Dadoo too is changing, his suspicious mind has started weaving stories against all of us. When he is pally with Vikram he talks against us, ‘Rohit and Rewa are very clever; they have left us. They will not do any of our work. We will have to do it ourselves, so let us forget them. You and I will join hands to finish the work.’ When I got to know this, I was disturbed but then I told myself that he was not well and his suspicions would increase many fold in the future.

You don’t know how to react when he says, ‘Because I don’t remember now, you can make a fool of me. I am an old helpless man. Mera mazak udao, kuch bhi bolo, main kya kar sakta hoon [make fun of me or be mean to me, I can’t do anything]. Now I am no more the head of the family, so you can take decisions between yourselves. There is no need to ask me anything.’

28

Sometimes I wonder how Dadoo and Mamma think about each other.

Mamma says that he always considered her semi-literate and did not share many things with her. He was always willing to talk to his sons and daughters but not with her because he felt she would not understand.

Wisdom is not related to educational degrees, she might not be educated but she has run the household. And she has seen the plight of educated people in all these years, their follies, vanities, their false pride and their frailties.

She ‘learnt’ all her life, she learnt to live in a village; to live with educated people, who always talk about degrees and studies; to take care of the elders and how to raise the kids – what has all this been if not learning. She even picked up English in all these years, she understands most of the things when her children spoke in English and she too can converse with them in English. She never considered herself inferior, in any way whatsoever, to any educated person. But I am sure she always felt hurt when her husband made fun of her education.

Mamma always said that Dadoo’s desire to acquire land, to invest wisely, bank accounts, fix deposits, shares and securities was a passion. This he has been doing since he was young. He could discuss these things for hours, this is what interested him; he talked about property, land, money and investments. May be this is connected to their marriage. He came from a village family and she belonged to an extremely rich family in Burma. Her father was one of the richest industrialists there, they had mines and he dealt in rubies, pearls and emeralds, they had ships and cars, and huge farms and orchards. He traded in southeast Asian sea. Theirs was a palatial house with servants and maids. They had gardeners, caretakers, guards, watchmen, drivers, milkmen and other workers all around. The house was always buzzing with activity. Probably all this affected Dadoo and made him feel inferior. Did his hunger for money come because of this?

Since he was not into business, he started to invest in land and shares, which he did wisely. This was his way to equal the lifestyle of his wife’s family. He wanted a better life and he wanted to prove to her that he was not less than anyone. She always understood that. Moreover, this trait of investment had also come to him from his father who was a farmer and a moneylender.

Dadoo probably thought that Mamma would not understand investments and other things, so he looked up to his children to fill this space. When we were in our teens he would discuss with us everything – household budget, money matters, current affairs and politics. He talked about our education, careers, marriages and what we wanted from life on one to one basis. He would bring us books from library – the classics and the popular fiction both – and would encourage us to read.

But when we grew up, went out for education, got married and started our own families he was left alone. Suddenly he had no one to talk to, and with Mamma there was a block. For many years he talked to us on phone and had long conversations but then gradually he lost interest in phone conversations and wanted us to be near him.

He was obsessed with his children, when two of his children were with him he wanted the other two to be there too. Those who were present to hug him, love him and kiss him made him happy, but only for some time, as his mind would drift to the one who was not there and he would be sad.

I also think that Dadoo always felt that Mamma was very beautiful, a headturner, whereas he was not good looking at all. So many times he mentioned this, especially the part when Nana-ji first came to see him, and rejected him ‘because of his looks’, because his ‘one eye was damaged’ since childhood when a thorn had pierced it and his vision was very low in that eye. It was only when they did not find any other suitable match did they agree for the marriage. According to him, it was his education that brought them back.

He never gave much importance to looks. While Mamma came from a family where dressing up and looking good was an essential part of life and going out in the evenings and eating out was a culture. Since she was younger to him by ten years, he started to feel that she was still young and beautiful and full of life, while he was getting old. He started going to the market alone to bring vegetables and groceries and would tell her not to go out needlessly. At times he said that she did not go with him to the market as she thought that he was old.

‘Mamma was beautiful indeed,’ said Mala didi, ‘Whenever she went to the market the shopkeepers would stop weighing things on their scales and were mesmerised by her beauty, the customers would also not mind as they too would be looking at her.’

29

Many months ago, Dadoo was in one of his philosophical moods, he said, ‘Being old is not natural. It is unnatural.’ I was intrigued and I delightfully goaded him to explain.

He said, ‘When people did not live for a long time their bodies and minds remained strong and healthy. There were not many diseases. Moreover, there was less stress in life. It was like living for a limited time and then gradually fading away. Now we drag on. When we are in our sixties we wish to live for five more years and then five more and it goes on. We have become greedy.’

He further added, ‘When humans were evolving, life was very short. Average life span was twenty or thirty years. All the diseases that hit you with age like blood pressure, diabetes, heart problems and cancer were absent. You reproduced and the drama of life was over. That is what Nature wants you to do. Now, with the help of medical science people tend to add years to their life. This is a problem.’

‘But Dadoo death is inevitable and there is nothing wrong to have better quality of life in the old age with medicines and treatment,’ I try to reason with him.

He shrugs, ‘I don’t know.’

Later, I was astonished to read that recent research also suggests that perhaps life wants us to reproduce and once we do that we are no longer important. The hormones that strengthen reproduction when we are young lead to diseases and degenerative conditions when we age.

30

10 January 2011

I am losing my father.

Two days back we had got a call from Vikram, ‘Daddy is not well.’ I talked to him on the phone and he was sounding very low. I can still hear his feeble voice on the phone just saying, ‘Aa jaao bacchon, aur apni mummy ka dhyan rakhna [come my children and take care of your mother].’

‘Dadoo, you are there to do that,’ I tried to sound strong. He replied, ‘It is no more me now, things have gone beyond me.’ I uttered some reassurances and kept the phone down. The next day Rohit and I left for Solan.

I rushed into his room anxiety ridden. He was lying down. I was shocked to see him. In just ten days he had changed so much, the complexion of his skin had darkened and he looked so feeble and lost underneath the thick quilt.

I kissed him mumbling ‘Dadoo’. He opened his eyes, looked at me and started sobbing softly. It was a very different kind of crying, no tears, but as if he was sobbing his misery out. He put his hands on my face and kissed me fervently ‘Mera bachhoo aa gaya [oh, my child has come],’ and he wept inconsolably.

I didn’t know what to say and then Rohit entered. He again did the same, fervently kissing him everywhere and touching him. Mamma tried to pacify him, ‘You will become more weak, don’t cry.’ But he kept on sobbing hard.

I sat beside him holding his weak hands and then after sometime he said, ‘Don’t mind me, mera mood theek nahin hai [I am not in a good mood.]’

I said, ‘Why should we mind, Dadoo?’

He said, ‘No, you must be thinking kya pagal ho gaya hai ye [has he lost his mind] and is spoiling our moods too.’

I shook my head and said, ‘We will never think like this.’

But I knew that he was not listening to me, he was lost in his own thoughts, he had stopped eating properly. He was eating just a little bit for the last three days and as Vikram brought breakfast for him he started crying again.

I said, ‘Dadoo, eat a little bit.’

‘I am not hungry.’

There was nothing much to do, we all sat around him and then after sometime he said, ‘Aaj main bahut khush hoon mere sare bachhe mere pass hain [I am very happy today all my children are near me].’ And then he asked Mamma, ‘Idhar aa tujhe bhi main pyar kar loon [come here let me kiss you too].’

Mamma said, ‘Kaisi batein kar rahe ho [what are you saying]!’

He again said, ‘Idhar aa.’ I pushed Mamma forward; he kissed her on the cheek and then said, ‘There is nothing to worry. If children are watching, let them watch,’ he feebly joked. This brought smiles on our faces and then he slumped back again on the bed. A little later when the maid came he opened his eyes he called her towards him and blessed her saying, ‘Aaj main bahut khush hoon. Is khushi main isko thore paise de do [today I am very happy, give her some money].’ Mamma nodded. He said, ‘Abhi panch rupay de do [give her five rupees now].’

I said, ‘Dadoo, panch rupay? Panch rupay ki to ek toffee bhi nahin aati [one cannot even buy a toffee for five rupees]. He said, ‘Ye aise hi dene hain, khushi main dene hain [this is a token, I want to give out of happiness].’

I said, ‘Dadoo pachaas rupay de do [give her fifty rupees].’ He looked at me shocked and said, ‘Das se zyada nahin [not more than ten].’ I nodded taking ten rupees from Mamma and giving it to the lady who was rather surprised.

At lunch time we forced him to have a piece of bread and the crying started all over again. He enquired about the well-being of my father-in-law and took some other names that I did not know; I assured him all of them were fine.

‘Do they remember me?’

I nodded and just to pep him up I said, ‘Rajni is coming.’

‘That is very good,’ he said, ‘Woh mere bhai ke ladki hai [she is my brother’s daughter].’And then he looked at Vikram and said, ‘Tujhe uska dhyan rakhna hai [you have to take care of her],’ and then told Mamma ‘Usko bhi paise zaroor dena [give her some money too].’

The entire day he lay exhausted. Oh, how different he had become from the active chirpy man, full of life and vitality!

And then he said to me ‘Your brother has come, you have to help him.’

I nodded.

‘You have to help him to write such a book that he shines like a star.’

I again nodded.

‘You are already shining like a bright star in the sky but now you have to make him a star too. Will you help him with the book?’ he asked earnestly.

‘Yes,’ I mumbled.

He repeated this off and on, at least twenty times. I didn’t want to go to sleep in the night but then I was tired and Dadoo, after having a cup of broth, had closed his eyes.

I can’t explain the joy I felt early in the morning and how my heart gladdened when I came down and saw my Dadoo not on the bed but standing in his night gown and cap near the closet containing his files. Jumping excitedly I hugged him, ‘Dadoo, you are okay?’

He looked at me blankly and then started crying, ‘Ab mera kuch nahin raha, main pagal ho raha hoon. Main poori raat nahin soya [now there is nothing left in me, I am losing my mind, I could not sleep the entire night]. Rohit had asked me to fill some forms but I don’t know how to fill forms. Sab kuch khatam ho raha hai [everything is going haywire]. I am forgetting everything.’

‘I know, Dadoo, it very bad,’ I said.

He shook his head and said, ‘You can never know how bad it is, I am becoming mad and I will never be better again. My life is slipping away; I don’t remember who I have spoken to? Who is who? Now look, I don’t even know whether you stay in Shimla or Chandigarh and when did you come here today or yesterday or how many days back.’

‘Dadoo, it is fine.’

Crying pitifully he said, ‘It is not fine.’

‘What can I do?’ I said and then he controlled himself and said, ‘Come every week to meet me.’

I nodded, ‘I will do that.’

‘And there is so much of work, I don’t know anything, my bank, my files.’

I assured him that Rohit would take leave from work for a day or two and sort it all out.

‘When will you come?’ he asked.

‘After a few days and we will stay with you for a week.’

He stopped crying immediately and then said, ‘You are my daughter, I am sharing this with you but don’t tell about my condition to Rohit. He will think his father-in-law has lost his mind, and I will feel very insulted. Don’t tell him anything.’

I nodded.

‘Tell him I am fine and I do not forget anything.’

I nodded again and realized that many a times in the last nearly one year when I had gone with him to the market and acquaintances greeted him he just laughed boisterously and said ‘Hum shagl karte hain apas main [we are just having fun].’ Now I understand that he didn’t want anyone to know that he had forgotten them, which means if not fully his senses were still alert.

Is this a man’s ego or is it self-respect? It is so strong even when everything around you is falling apart. He still tries to cover it up: tries to act normal knowing that nothing is normal.

Sometimes I think he knows he will never get better. It’s kind of a slow death. Oh how lucky are those who just leave this world instantly or suffer physical pain only. For the first time I felt that I would prefer that my father leaves without losing himself totally. At least he would depart as a person, a sane person.

The strain, the heartbreak and the chaos that come with this disease overpowers the family members. It is so easy to loose patience. As the world of your loved one falls apart in bits and pieces, the family members go crazy.

Dementia means a lot of stress, anxiety and sleepless nights. Financial help is important. It is with the finances that domestic help, caregivers, nurses, and even companions can be arranged. However, in middle-class families it is so difficult to convince to spend money on keeping a full-time professional help. They prefer keeping the money stashed in banks or dole out as shagun in family functions and even offer to the gods and goddesses praying for the wellness of the patient. We normally do not realize that many people are needed to handle people with dementia with dignity. I had to persuade my mother relentlessly to agree to engage a full-time domestic help.

31

31 January 2011

Today was so different. I keep on saying this but he was different. For the first time in months he talked so rationally and acted normal.

I can’t say that he was depressed – there were so many words of wisdom and so much of practicality. And it shook me. Frankly I too wanted to know what was there in the depth of his mind when he was talking, and as I listened nodding and making appropriate noises, he was able to communicate what lay deep down. We are sitting in the sun on the roof of our house.

He says: ‘Look at these plants, admi se yeh zyada kismat wale hain [these are luckier than humans], you know why? Because they do not have a mind. Same is the case with animals. But with humans because of this mind there is so much of suffering; it is a punishment which is being given to us. Life is a drama, there is no distinction between us and the plants and the animals. The only difference is the mind.’

‘And when this mind is no more, there is pointlessness,’ he says, as I listen.

‘Anyway this is life – just like my plants, a seed is sown, a small plant sprouts, leaves come out, a bud comes out, flowers bloom and then they wither away and die. Our life too is similar. I accept it, I know. This is not only happening to me. It will happen to everyone. My parents have gone, their parents had gone, I too shall go. But I am so tired and confused. All this worry eats me up. I am concerned about my children all the time. I now want to let go. I am eighty. How many people live till this age? Look around you. Not many. What else do I want? Eighty is a ripe old age.’

‘Now enough is enough.’

‘Has a will been chalked out?’ he asks suddenly. I nod. ‘Power of attorney should be given to Asha, tell Rohit to make the papers. And then I shall be at peace,’ he says. I nod.

I try to philosophize, ‘Life and death are not in our hands, Dadoo.’

He shakes his head, ‘I do not know how to explain this to you, but I know that I do not have many days left, I feel it inside me, I can sense it, this life is over now.’

‘And if you or someone else tells me to jump from here, I will do that without even blinking an eyelid without thinking of what would happen to me.’

‘Are you scared of death, Dadoo?’ I ask.

He shakes his head, ‘I am waiting for it. I want to go. You will have to take care of your Mamma. She has no one, no brother, no sister, no parents.’

I am quiet when he suddenly asks, ‘When will my pension increase? How much will it increase?’

‘Seven thousand rupees.’

‘Will your mother get it?’

‘She will get half.’

‘When will it increase?’

‘15 May.’

He nods contemplatively.

‘I will have to wait till then.’

He is so sure, it is as if he has made up his mind, it scares me. Are we really discussing death, I ask myself several times as we converse.

‘I have two desires left, one I want to go to my village for the last time. And second, I want to meet my younger son, is he coming soon?’ he asks and I nod.

And then he talks about a book that he is reading, ‘It is a very good book on life by the Dalai Lama, you should read it, Rohit should read it. For me it is too late. I should have read it twenty years back but you don’t have to make the same mistake. Read it now.’

‘We will read it,’ I assure him.

‘When you get old, it is the worst phase of life because you have all the time in the world but the others have no time for you. You become useless. And you disturb others. Your mind does not work. You say things that you don’t want to say, there is no self-respect left. Your family members tell you to keep quiet. Sometimes I am afraid, I mull a lot before saying anything. Will it be appropriate, will I disturb someone by what I say?’

‘Are your children and wife bad, Dadoo?’ I ask terrified of what he will reply.

He shakes his head. ‘No, they are not bad. It is a natural process. It will happen with everyone. I have all the time in the world. To me different things are important, they have very little time. They are in such an age that their mind is occupied with so many other things. There is a generation gap of thoughts and what is important to them is not important to me and what is important to me does not matter to them.’

‘We just don’t fit in.’ he says quietly.

Somehow, I understand.

Today was the first time that he forgot about his profession, a job that he did for forty years when he asked, ‘Was I a banker?’

‘No, Dadoo, you were a mathematics teacher.’

There is a silence so heavy, far heavier than words.

32

5 February 2011

Rohit and I are sitting in the lawn, Dadoo comes and places his chair next to Rohit. I get ready to listen to their conversation.

‘Rohit beta, I am very worried and tensed.’

‘But, Daddy, there is no need to be tensed.’

‘You don’t know there are so many problems. Especially with the taxes.’

‘There is no problem, Daddy, everything has been sorted out and now you need not worry.’

‘Do you know what the problem is?’

‘Yes, it was about the investment of capital gains, we had to construct a house, which we are doing and it will be all right.’

‘Do you know everything?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘What is it all about?’

‘You had a plot in Gurgaon, which you sold and the money that you got was invested in capital gains account. Now we had to re-invest this in three years. For one year we tried to find some good plot, but we did not get a suitable one. Then we thought that we would buy a flat but we did not get the right kind of flat. Now we have decided to build a flat in Solan above the roof of this house, everything is decided and we will invest the amount here, and there will be no tax.’

‘How much tax do we have to pay?’

‘Four lakh rupees if we do not make a house, but since we are making a house, there will be no tax.’

‘How much money is there?’

‘Thirty lakh rupees.’

‘Thirty lakh rupees! Where is it?’

‘In the bank.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘Have you seen this money?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘When?’

‘I see it regularly. There is a passbook of that account in your briefcase and I have seen the entry even today.’

‘Is the money there?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘So how much do we have to finally spend?’

‘Thirty lakhs.’

‘How much tax will we have to pay?’

‘Four lakh if we do not spend the money but we will build a house, so no tax.’

‘But there must be a time limit.’

‘Yes, there is one year till March 2012, it is only February 2011.’

‘No, no, there is no time.’

‘There is time, Daddy. Full one year.’

‘You have it in writing?’

‘I know it, it is the law.’

‘How can you say this?’

‘I know, I have checked all papers.’

‘By when will we have to build it?’

‘By March next year.’

‘How much time will it take?’

‘It will be completed before August this year.’

‘Whom have you spoken to?

‘Amit Kashyap, the contractor. He will complete it by August.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘But there is so much work. Where are the maps?’

‘Maps are being made.’

‘They have not yet been made?’

‘They are being made and will be ready in couple of days.’

‘Have you shown the place and the site to the contractor?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘Are you aware that there are only four iron rods on one side of the building, and that only one more floor can come up there? While on the second portion, where there are six iron rods, many storeys can be built?’

‘Yes, I know and I have shown this to the contractor.’

‘Then, where will he build it?’

‘On the part where there are six rods.’

‘Has the map been made?’

‘Yes, it is being finalized, Vikram is in constant touch with the architect.’

‘Does Vikram know about it?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘What is the time limit?’

‘One year.’

‘Will it be over in one year?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘But there’s so much of work, it won’t be done.’

‘It will be done, Daddy, everything is ready.’

‘Who will build this, the contractor?’

‘Kashyap, Daddy, Amit Kashyap.’

‘You have spoken to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘You did not tell me.’

‘I told you, Vikram also knows this, we will do this, you don’t have to worry.’

‘What will be the cost of construction?’

‘The contractor will tell us.’

‘How much money is there?’

‘Thirty lakhs.’

‘But if we build all this area with thirty lakhs we will have to pay house tax to the committee.’

‘Yes.’

‘How much will that be?’

‘It won’t be much.’

‘What will be the exact amount?’

‘It will be on floor area so we will know about it later.’

‘But you must assess it as the tax will have to be paid to the municipal committee.’

‘Yes, Daddy, that is what we are doing.’

‘Do you know the contractor?’

‘Yes, you also know him, he is Amit Kashyap.’

‘Oh!’

‘What will we do?’

‘We will construct a house and all is settled.’

‘Have the maps been passed by the committee?’

‘Not yet, but soon these will be passed.’

‘No maps passed yet, how will we do it?’

‘We will do it there is enough time and you need not worry.’

‘I am worried.’

‘Please do not get worried. We will do everything and there will be no problem.’

‘I am tensed, I am losing my mind, and I can’t do anything about it. You will have to take charge.’

‘Yes, both Vikram and I will do it, you don’t have to worry.’

‘Vikram has no experience of such sorts, you have to guide him.’

‘Yes, I will do that.’

‘Can I make a request to you?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘Now you take charge, do not ask me anything, I can do nothing.’

‘Okay, Daddy.’

‘Beta, I will sign the cheques when you tell me to. I will also tell the contractor to talk to you for any further requirement. You will have to supervise everything. There is nothing that I can do myself now.’

‘But you will have to come from Shimla daily. Come in the evening and leave in the morning.’

‘Okay, Daddy.’

‘Will you do this?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘So I should worry no more?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘Should I rest in peace and there is no tension. Am I relieved?’

‘Yes, Daddy, you need not worry anymore, everything is fine.’

‘Okay, thank you, beta, I was very worried, now we have only your support. You have to do it.’

‘I will do it.’

‘How much tax do we have to pay?’

‘Four lakhs if we do not do anything but we are building a house so there will be no tax.’

‘Why is this tax?’

And then it goes on … again and again.

It surprises me that on some things, may be very less, he has so much of clarity – tax, building norms, maps, iron rods. How does the mind really work? It stores, remembers some things and scrapes out the rest.

33

First time when I felt that I needed to share my father’s condition with someone outside the family, I thought of talking to Sapna. She has lot of empathy and she is caring and will understand me. I was surprised that I chose Sapna out of all my college friends. I was not in touch with her for years. After she married she settled in Dharampur and I went off to Chamba and other interior places in Himachal with my husband. Through friends I kept on getting news about her, how she had not changed, she was still the chirpy and happy-go-lucky Sapna. I always wanted to meet her but somehow it did not materialize.

So, when Sapna came to my mind I was surprised at myself, but I was sure that time lag would not matter between us. It was not important that we were talking after a gap of years. Friends pick up strings very fast. So I called her up. And there she was as jolly as ever. She shouted, ‘Hi, is this really you, so great to hear from you. You know what, I just dreamt about you a couple of days back. This is so wonderful!’

I was in tears, true friends are a treasure and I cursed myself for not being in touch with her; after the initial blabber she asked me about Dadoo. I explained what was happening to him and realized after a few moments that there was silence at the other end. I could then hear muted weeping and I was perplexed.

‘Sappu, what are you doing, it is me who is supposed to be crying. But look at you, you are the one weeping and wailing. Are you crazy? It is me who needs moral support.’

‘You don’t know, Rewa, what I have gone through for the last ten years. Rahul’s mother was a patient of Alzheimer’s. And I understand what you people are going through.’

I was stunned, then Sapna told me about her mother-in-law, who went from bad to worse, and finally they had to keep her locked inside the room fearing that she would run away or she would hit herself with some sharp object. ‘Don’t be emotional, you have a long way to go, so get ready. This will be a long battle. So be practical,’ she added. I felt my heart sinking with these words. Now I wanted to meet her face to face. To listen to her story and to know how she handled it. I realized that it was so strange that behind her bubbly self there was such sadness. How tough it must have been for her.

So the next day I landed at her door and rang the bell, Sapna opened the door, looked at me and started crying. She cried and cried as I hugged her settling her on the sofa. Then I called Rahul from the shop above and he came and gave a glass of water to her.

‘Rahul, what has happened to her?’ I asked bewildered.

‘This happens to her every four months or so, she has never been able to forget my mother.’ Then both of them explained how they had to take care of aunty. In the end a time came when they had to tie her up with the bed so that she was safe. ‘We felt guilty but we had no option, otherwise we could not sleep for days and weeks and that was the only way to do so,’ said Rahul matter of factly.

‘She did not allow us to be out of her sight and the only time that we could sleep was when she slept, which was very less. So we had to tie her up at night. If we did not do that she would go to the kitchen and take a knife and we would fear she may hurt herself, or she would suddenly start sweeping the floor, she would not sleep a wink saying that there was lot of work to do and she had to clean the house.’

Rahul continued, ‘Some day she would say, “Bring my children to me, they are small and they will get lost. Bring them to me, I have to cook food for them.’

As I consoled her I hoped that this would not happen to me. My Dadoo will not be like that, I will never have to tie him up.

We talked a little longer and then I came back home. I was sick with worry.

34

17 February 2011

Today is their fifty-first wedding anniversary. I called him up in the morning, he was in a bright and chirpy mood, when I greeted him on his anniversary he was surprised. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured.

‘Yes, Dadoo, but I know,’ I said.

‘If it is my wedding anniversary then you should be here,’ he said cheekily. ‘What use is this day if my children are not with me?’ he added laughingly. I didn’t know what to say. In a way he was right, we should be there but then …

When Dadoo laughs there can be no joy bigger than watching him. I love my Dadoo’s laughter because there is more to this. It is not just a simple, casual laugh. It is a deep throaty laugh, full of the bounty of life. Now with time it is disappearing. It is very rarely that he laughs like this. I wonder sometimes in my sad moments if he will also forget to laugh, like he is forgetting everything else.

35

28 February 2011

Just two days back I had spoken to Sapna again. She had to say some very blunt things.

Many times you know what is right, you know what will be will be, you know that you have to live in the present but somehow or the other you are not able to digest these golden rules of life. The situations, the circumstances become more important. On rare occasions when you read some thing or someone tells you a thing or two you understand it clearly.

‘This is a disease which will never be cured. You have to live with it and accept that it is going to deteriorate day by day. Second, leave him in peace. I mean don’t force him to do things like eat food, wear this, don’t do that. Don’t try to force logic on him because his brain cannot accept your logic. Third thing is don’t allow him to go into the bathroom alone or lock the door from inside because he may forget how to open it,’ said Sapna.

I was getting panic stricken and wanted her to stop but she went on.

‘Four, don’t keep any sharp-edged things like knife or scissors because when these patients get angry they become suicidal. Five, let him keep on doing what he wants to do. If he is talking don’t stop him and never ever mention in front of him that he is unwell. Always keep a watch on him but do not be too obvious about it. Six, in the night lock the doors of the house and keep the key away from him to make sure that he does not just walk out. Remember, he is a sick man with a disease. Accept this and don’t try to normalize him like others. Whatever he says, don’t feel bad about it because he doesn’t know what he is saying since his brain is not working.’ She paused and then continued, ‘And be ready for the worst. One day he will even forget who he is, where he is and how to go to the washroom. You will have to clean him every day.’

I nod, ‘We will do it.’

‘Finally, don’t exhaust yourself now by thinking about him all the time, sitting with him hour by hour, because you have no idea how many years he will live, if you put all your energy now how will you take care of him afterwards? He is a parent, he is your Daddy but you also have to understand that he is eighty, and when a person is old he has to go one way or the other, for him it is this way.’

Life is such a pain for some, I thought as I heard her out.

According to available evidence, on an average, patients with dementia live for eight to ten years after they are diagnosed but the disease can last up to twenty years.

36

I have never regretted my childhood or my adolescence. My childhood was full of fun, library books, cycling, dancing in the rain, playing chess, going to local fairs to watch wrestling bouts, and I had the best relationship with my brothers and sister.

While we were in Nigeria, Dadoo had allowed that for two hours in a day the kitchen will belong to we three – Vikram, Deepak and I – I was eleven, Vikram thirteen and Deepu just five. Everyday we tried new dishes. One afternoon we made burfis with cream, milkmaid, powdered milk, sugar, cardamom, raw papaya and coconut. Another afternoon we tried savoury delights. This practice continued as years went by and we grew up.

We had lots of friends coming over for surprise parties. Mamma made so many mithais and that too in huge quantities not only for entire Indian community there but also for other expatriates and our Nigerian friends. Our house resembled a halwai factory on Holi and Diwali with gulab jamuns, shakkar-pare, balushahis, burfis, ladoos and so many other delights. Entire family would turn into chefs.

Dadoo would take Vikram and me to the library three days in a week. He made us read Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Gorky and Dickens.

Once I told my father that my best friend, Samina, had so many dresses and shoes compared to me.

‘Do you like shoes and clothes?’ he asked. I nodded, not sure but then Samina had so many.

‘You want more?’ he asked.

I thought and said no. I could not say yes, even though Samina’s dresses and shoes loomed in my head.

‘So, what is the confusion?’ he asked as I contradicted my earlier statement. I kept quiet. I could not say that Samina had all this so I too should have them. And then he said, ‘If these things are so important for you, I will buy you lots of clothes and shoes but you have to be sure of what you want. Do not get things because someone else has them or wants them. It is not important to show off or to compete with others when in your heart you have no desire for that competition.’

This advice has stayed with me and has done a lot of good to me.

Dadoo always told tales about great men and women who succeeded against all odds. He believed that knowing about such personalities motivated and inspired you to move ahead. Several times he narrated instances from the life of Mahatma Gandhi and Nelson Mandela. His motto was: do not succumb to adversities, always put up a brave fight.

37

I was in class eleven in the year 1985 and Dadoo was posted in Rampur, about one hundred and seventy kilometres from Solan, where Mamma and Deepak were staying. One day Dadoo told me that I had to go to Solan alone in a bus; the journey was about eight to nine hours long. I became nervous.

‘Why do I have to go alone? Why can’t you come along?’

‘It is a good thing, you should go alone,’ he says.

‘I do not want to go, Dadoo.’

‘You will like it I promise you. And you will learn so many things. Travel is the best education.’

‘But I don’t understand why,’ I murmur back, anxiety written all over me.

‘Have faith in me, it will help you to build confidence.’

‘I am already confident.’

He shrugs his shoulders, we all are sitting on the bed, Vikram is also there. He is reading a novel and I get irritated, ‘Why don’t you send him?’ I spit out.

Dadoo laughs, ‘Next will be his turn.’

Vikram smiles at me, infuriating me further.

‘First him and then me,’ I say adamantly.

Just as Vikram gets ready to argue, Dadoo replies, ‘You are the youngest and you always say, pehle chota phir bada [first opportunity should be given to the one who is younger].’

I am stumped.

‘I have confidence in you, you will reach there safely,’ he said with an assuring smile.

No doubt he had confidence in me. I was just fifteen but he gave a major chunk of his pay to me to buy monthly groceries.

Since Mamma and Deepu stay in Solan and we three – Dadoo, Vikram and I – stay in Rampur, all household work is divided equally between Vikram and I. One day Vikram would cook and the next day I would do the cooking. We would take turns to do the dishes.

I am the youngest was my trump card always. I often said, ‘I am the youngest, I should be allowed to choose first!’

So when we brought sweets from the market I got to choose the share first, I got the first chance to read the library book. So Dadoo was paying me back in my coin.

I remember sitting in the front seat of the bus, tears spilling down my cheeks as I thought of the dreadful journey. Dadoo was rushing here and there bringing pakoras and bananas for me. He talked to the conductor and driver to take care of me making me feel more awful and lost. When the bus left Rampur bus stand, he waved vigorously as if I was on some Olympic mission! I do not know if I was angry with him or with myself but the idea of a father sending his daughter alone on a long arduous journey of nine hours just for the sake of building confidence seemed totally preposterous to me.

I reached Solan safe and sound. Mamma was so furious with Dadoo. So after two days when Dadoo arrived in Solan with Vikram, Mamma blew him up for doing such an irresponsible thing. This made me happy to some extent but I was so hurt and angry that I did not speak to him for a couple of days. He reasoned and cajoled me out of my sulk.

Dadoo was always willing to discuss things and experiment. All my friends got pocket money but I did not get any as he handed over major part of his salary to me since I was handling the household budget. Hence, pocket money was a huge attraction for me; so one day I asked him to pay me pocket money every month.

‘You have all of my money, why do you need separate pocket money?’ he asked.

I said, ‘No, that is your money, I want my money that I can spend on anything.’

He reasoned, ‘You can spend the money I give you on anything, I have never said anything to you.’

But I was adamant, pocket money seemed more mine to me.

We argued and came to a decision. Any money that I saved from the household chores like buying vegetables and other rations by going around in shops and inquiring the rates and thus managing the finance – would be divided between me and Vikram as pocket money.

I was excited. After one month I handed over the ‘savings’ to him and asked for pocket money. He gave it to me, but the novelty withered away soon. After three months we stopped giving him the savings and demanding pocket money. Both Vikram and I decided that we did not need it anymore.

Once Dadoo said, ‘Tera paisa-mera paisa kuch nahin hota. Paisa kharcho woh hi hota hai [there is nothing like your money or my money, whatever you spend that alone is your money].’

One of his mottos was ‘Always give your best and do not worry about what happens next.’ After shifting from Nigeria I found it difficult to adjust in new environment and fared poorly in the first year in college. I barely managed to pass exam and I cried. Dadoo hugged me and even shared a few tears with me saying, ‘You have done your best, do not worry. The rest is not important. More important is to learn how to live life, which you are doing.’

I did not understand it then: But now I realize that he wanted us to be a good human being. That was the most important thing for him. How right he was! His focus was to inculcate right values in us.

38

I remember when I was around ten, I was sitting at the dining table where Dadoo too was sitting reading something. I was trying to talk to him but he was too engrossed reading, that’s when Mamma came from the kitchen with two cups of tea – one for herself and one for Dadoo. I do not remember why the other chairs were occupied, at least one of the chairs had Dadoo’s stuff on it. Then Dadoo said firmly, ‘Rewa, get up let your Mamma sit.’ I was about to say something when he said, ‘And remember this, whenever an elder comes, you must get up and offer your seat.’

Daddoo respected my mother. She did not lead the normal life of drudgery that an average Indian woman led. Though I know that Indian women in general are not ill-treated and their view points are taken and they are the backbone of the family but somehow, somewhere they lack that respect – respect of opinion may be, respect of just sitting and listening to them, respecting their views on how to handle family affairs. I had never heard my mother whining about lack of money or no money. The reason was very simple, Dadoo handed over his salary to Mamma to take care of the house and all the financial complications that went with it. He would introduce Mamma to all his friends and us children by names. In the beginning it was such a proud feeling, a feeling of awe, a seven-year-old or a ten-year-old being introduced to wise, elderly men of thirty! Later sometimes, it was irritating too. If a guest had come it was mandatory to come and greet him, make some polite talk, serve water and other refreshments like tea, soft drinks, snacks. Like all other chores this too was done alternatively, one day Vikram and the next day me.

Watching our parents talk to their parents, how they took care of them, with joy, reverence and indulgence indirectly taught us many things. Everything special to eat that came into the house was first served to the eldest. In case there was not enough snacks or mithai for everyone, the youngest one would not get it, it was a norm, no one argued about it.

Yes, one thing that I feel and regret is that we siblings were never taught hygiene. The reason probably was that our parents themselves were not so hygienically sound. They were not unclean or something, but we were never taught things like washing your hands regularly, having an exclusive soap and towel, brushing your teeth before sleeping, combing your hair when you got up in the morning; we never learnt it till very late. Dadoo was a farmer’s son, a man who loved earth, a man who thought these trivial things were not important for living and Mamma, though she was from that kind of a family, somehow did not teach us all this.

I remember him crying, sobbing like a child when I was young; I must be around twelve then, and Mamma hugging and comforting him. Some personal disaster had struck back home in India. I did not know what, but it was very traumatic for me to see him in such a condition. Dadoo and Mamma were hiding something from us, which had never happened before and was new to us. The next day he flew to India alone. Mamma kept crying and would not say anything. When Dadoo came back he was angry at Mala didi and told Mamma never to mention her name in the house. Mamma was clutching on to a packet, which she finally placed on top of the kitchen cupboard. When they had gone to the market, Vikram and I climbed up on the stool and with trembling fingers opened that packet, because we knew that all the misery and anger of our parents was related to it somehow.

It was an exceptional thing for us to do, trembling with fear and guilt. There were black and white photographs inside the envelope. It took some time for me to recognize Mala didi, and there was a man with her and it took some more time to realize that she looked different. She looked married.

We danced around with the photos with joy and when we heard the car outside we hurriedly put them in the packet.

As we chanted happily about Mala didi being married, Mamma snatched the packet from our hands and severely reprimanded us. There was cold fear in her voice, which of course stumped us. That was the only time that I remember her in fear of Dadoo. Later after weeks, Dadoo called us in the drawing room. He said that our elder sister had done a wrong thing, she had run away from the house and got married. Mamma was sobbing behind him, as Dadoo talked firmly. He said we now have nothing to do with her, she is no longer their daughter or our sister. I asked, ‘Why did she do this?’ He kept quiet and Mamma sobbed harder and then he said very softly, ‘May be I am to be blamed, somewhere.’

The next couple of months were heavy and laden with grief and many a time we would come across our parents huddled together whispering, talking and then becoming quiet when we came near. It was a difficult time because till then there had been no secrets from us and we had never seen them in grief.

This incident got so ingrained in my mind that I vowed when I grew up I would never have a boyfriend, mine would be an arranged marriage, as I would never bring this heartache to my parents.

Though in later years this vow became a problem for Dadoo. He just could not find the right match for me. I would tease him, and say, ‘This is your duty, now find me Mr Right and let us see how good he will be.’ For a couple of years, he showed me photographs of the grooms-to-be and we both would sit down and dissect the information minutely to the frustration and irritation of my mother. She would mutter, ‘Kya kar rahe ho, yeh theek tarika nahin hai, isko kyon saath bithate ho [what are you doing, this is not the right way, why do you make her sit with you]?’ And I would gear up like a lioness to snap, ‘Yeh meri zindgi hai [This is my life],’ and Dadoo too would be on my side and mumble, ‘Zamana badal gaya hai, Asha, isko nahin bataunga toh kisko bataunga [Asha, times have changed, who will I tell if not her]?’

39

1 April 2011

Is the medicine working? I have doubts. He has become hyper since we changed the medicines again two months back. Now he instantly gets angry and agitated. He keeps on asking questions. We all try to divert his attention to something else like reading a paper, reading a book, or watching news on TV but in vain. He senses what we are trying to do and snubs us, ‘I don’t want to read, I don’t want to watch TV.’ He has become so weak and his voice is hardly audible but he keeps on talking from five in the morning till nine at night continuously.

He speaks his mind without inhibition. Recently he told me that he would give me a piece of land to build a house and when I said jokingly, ‘Dadoo, Mamma will not allow.’ He got so angry with Mamma shouting at her, ‘Have you forgotten she is your daughter? Aren’t you ashamed that you are not giving her the land?’ Poor Mamma, she just didn’t know what struck her.

He keeps asking us as to who bought this land, who gave the money, who decided to build the house and then he says, ‘Was I consulted?’ and we murmur ‘Dadoo, you were,’ but there is a defeated aura around him, he doesn’t believe us.

Once, he made a cross and said, ‘I am out, I am bye-passed, you build houses, you do money interactions, but you don’t ask me.’

From his viewpoint I understand how very difficult it must be for him to accept that his children are taking decisions all alone without consulting him. And here it is not a question of the parent telling what to do, it’s more a question of sharing any major event or a decision with the family. I remember from the very beginning when we were children many major issues were discussed with us even what kind of a house was to be built, what careers to be taken, which country should we go to for our next vacation, where we should spend our holidays in India, which books we should read. So naturally he must be feeling awful that we don’t discuss anything with him now.

Another change that has taken place is that he has started disliking food, it is so difficult to feed him. Every time he says, ‘I am full. My stomach is full with gas, I don’t want to eat now.’ Everyone in the family concentrates on how to make tasty and creative dishes for him. Sometimes we cajole him, shower kisses on him, sometimes we threaten him and sometime we blackmail him – all this to make him eat.

Could it be that he has got bored with food – eating for so many years, the same dal-chapatti-sabzi, the same taste of spices, the same smell of food. The very mention of food brings visible shudders from him, he does not even want to look at it and pushes the plate away. Is it depression that makes him react like this? In fact for the last couple of years, he has been shirking from food often leading to both physical and emotional weakness.

Long back when he was totally fine or you may say on the border line, my father-in-law once asked him, ‘Verma sahib why do you eat so little?’ He replied, ‘We should take only that much food which our body can burn. I do not work and if I eat more food where will the excess energy go? It will disturb the whole equilibrium.’ How clear he was in deliberately balancing his diet with physical work but now …

40

25 April 2011

Today while baking a cake I realized that I did not have any kishmish (raisin) at home. After my marriage whenever I visited Solan I was loaded with stuff bought by Dadoo from vegetables to fruits to dry fruits to sweets, he would keep on going to the market selecting the best and coming back loaded with the goodies. He had such a vast knowledge of all eatables, was a master in selecting the best papaya, the juiciest pomegranates, the sweetest melons and water melons, the tangy and sweet oranges, and the delicious grapes. He knew every texture and every fragrance of the best fruit. It was the same with the vegetables, the freshest and the greenest and the cheapest was the one that he chose.

Today it is kishmish which bring back these memories. There was no need for me to buy it, though it is used frequently in my house, Dadoo took care of it.

What will happen, who will do all these small but important things for me. Then I console myself, he did it for so many years I should cherish that memory and I recalled little things just in flashes: Lots of fresh corn, ginger, peas, dates and so many other small things, which I have stopped having for the last two years like jamun, berries even bananas, jalebi, and besan ki barfi. He has stopped buying them because he doesn’t remember what they are.

With fondness I remember his love for dry fruits. When we were children, travelling the world with him, the first things that Dadoo bought for us were almonds, pistachios, walnuts, fruit peel and cashew nuts. Now it is Mamma who buys these and he enjoys eating, munching away happily and saying, ‘These are very tasty, what are they called, I have had them for the first time.’

A couple of months back when we had gone to a shopping mall there were only two things that he concentrated on. Packet of dry fruits and potato wafers and he kept picking them up and then keeping them back in the rack as he read the price tags. In the end Rohit and Mamma bought two packets each of the dry fruits.

Some four years back when I was recovering from a long illness and Dadoo was still in his senses, I remember him making several tours to the local markets in Chandigarh: Bringing all kinds of things ranging from fresh coconut to fresh juice, from beetroot to green onions, from flavoured milks to cold coffees, from eggs to poultry, from mithais to samosas and household stuff including vegetables, rice and wheat. He was constantly on the move, buying, coming home, leaving things and then going back to the market again. What was nutritious and what was not, what was expensive and what was not didn’t matter, because it was needed (anjir, prunes, pine nuts) and when after every chemotherapy I came back to Shimla our vehicle was loaded with fruits and vegetables – kinoos in quintals, for fresh juice. This was all done by Dadoo.

Sometimes, I used to get so irritated when he would forcibly ask us to eat the fruits like bananas which we didn’t like and we would snap at him ‘Why do you bring them, we don’t like them.’ And now I realize the preciousness and the warmth of that spirited man. I agonize on who is going to do this for me now. Is it over? It saddens me but then again it gladdens my heart, at least I experienced it for such a long time.

And kishmish, it is fine. I will buy myself and every time I buy I will remember him fondly. Dadoo always loved food and that was one of his priorities in life.

‘There is no excitement of eating things which are in season. Nothing can match the taste and joy of eating vegetables which are out of season! It is expensive but compensates for the kick that it gives you,’ he would often say.

I had been motivated by him for so many years to eating lots of salads and fruits, but now all this is passing. He eats nothing, he buys nothing. I make it a point now to buy fruits, so that he can have one of his favourite ones, but alas he has totally forgotten the taste and instead of enjoying these things which he once loved he remains muddled up, stressed to the point of breaking down. In fact now he has become so lethargic that he opens his mouth and says, ‘Put it in, I can’t get up.’

Another dread is settling on me, if it goes on like this will he stop eating food by himself? Is it lethargy or something else, something dangerous, ticking in his brain making him forget how to eat on his own.

41

2 May 2011

He says, ‘I am a very satisfied man. I have educated my children, they are all settled and earning well’, and then a flash of memory and a doubt creeps in, ‘except for my elder daughter’, he whispers.

‘She is fine, Dadoo, she is doing good, don’t worry about her.’

He laments, ‘It is all my fault, it is the parents’ fault. It is the punishment that I got for going to Nigeria.’

I try to pacify him that what has to happen has to happen but he persists that he is guilty, that if he had been here in India she would not have eloped.

Just a week back he again reminisced on this issue which always disturbs him. ‘Was she alone here in India?’ he asked.

‘No, Dadoo, Dadi was with her.’

‘Oh,’ he said forlornly.

‘How old was she?’ he asked.

‘Seventeen.’

‘Yes, it was a tender and tumultuous age, we should have been more careful. Your grandmother must have found it difficult to take care of a teenage girl. Mala too must have found it difficult to share her doubts and anxieties with her.’ I keep quiet. He has made up his mind long back that it was his fault for spoiling didi’s future.

He also worries about Mamma – what will happen to her, who will take care of her? ‘You are the only ones who have to take care, she has only you.’

Sometimes during his rare moments of sanity he says, ‘She will have no problem, I have provided her with a house, sufficient money and then she will also get my pension, what else is a husband’s duty.’

42

6 May 2011

Today I ask him, ‘Dadoo, did you lead a happy life?’

‘Yes. I did my best, my children are good. I have gone places, I did it all by my own means. I was never dependent on anyone.’

‘Then why are you sad now?’ He looks at me with intense pain which I cannot decipher.

‘Happiness is in the moments. Now I don’t remember that happiness because it was at that moment. And in this moment what is there to be happy about? I have grown old. I have no mind, my memory is fading. There is no medicine, sometimes I think I am losing my mind and what am I waiting for? Let God take me away.’

I get upset and I snap back, ‘Everyone has to go, you are not the only one.’

He nods and says, ‘This is philosophy, beta.’

I am little hesitant but then I ask him, ‘Are you scared of death?’

He is thoughtful and then says, ‘What is scary about it? No, I am not.’

I persist, ‘The physical pain? How intense the pain will be when you leave this world?’

He is a little surprised and mutters, ‘Physical pain is nothing. It is just a body. Earlier limbs were removed when operations were done without anaesthesia. That time too humans endured this pain and lived. I am not scared of physical pain,’ he said emphatically.

‘Then what?’ I interrogate him.

After a long pause he says, ‘Moh aur maya – love and desire. In this world these two things suffocate us. It is my love for my family that frightens me, I don’t want to leave them. I am scared that they will not be able to survive. My children will be insecure and I don’t want that to happen.’

I am amazed at his obsession with us but then what do I know about parenting. I am not a parent.

‘And what is your desire?’ I ask.

‘There is no limit to desires, they keep on coming, multiplying. They are always there.’ He says giving me a look which says, ‘Don’t you know this simple truth.’

‘But—’

He interrupts, ‘—My desire is to see my children rise high, my desire is to see Deepak. What has he become now?’

‘Vice president.’

‘So what will be his next promotion?’

‘President.’

‘Yes, I want to see my son as president and want to see this daughter of mine to get an award for writing. When are you getting an award?’ He asks.

I smile, ‘Don’t know, Dadoo.’

‘But you must get an award, no one has written so many books in Himachal.’

‘There are people, Dadoo, who have written many books,’ I murmur.

‘Yes, but they are not popular.’

I have nothing to say, I am embarrassed. I want to change the topic when he repeats, ‘Moh—maya are the two things which have made life miserable on this earth.’

‘According to me without this there is no meaning to life,’ I say.

And he says, ‘I agree. But this itself is a torture, it is a suffering.’

I give in a little and then say, ‘Fine, there has to be a balance, not much, not less, Dadoo.’

He looks at me and shakes his head and with his wisdom replies, ‘Arrey beta there cannot be a balance that is why there is so much of suffering. Everyone knows this but love and desire are two things which are not in control. I am telling you this because no one has made this “balance”.’

Love and money. Whom do I love madly? Rohit, my parents, my in-laws? Can I make a balance? No, I can’t, love just pours out, it is not measured. And money? I have to have little but then, what is little? If someone says I will give you millions will I turn my back? I am not sure.

These philosophic discussions used to go on and on, sometimes on life, sometimes on being in the present – and sometimes on death.

‘When you reach my age you will know that kuch nahin hai iss duniya main, yeh sara mazak hai, drama hai [there is nothing to life. Everything is a joke, a drama]. The problem is that you get to know of it very late, by then you can’t turn back, so my advice to you is “enjoy the present, spend money, go places, do what you want to do because when you become old there will be nothing left”.’

‘Did you do what you wanted to do?’ I ask him.

‘Yes, I did,’ he says laughing proudly, ‘but I could have done more,’ he adds still smiling.

I am happy for him and I realize how very different he is from other parents. Whenever Rohit and I plan holidays, call friends in our house for dinners and parties, go for picnic, spend money on food and books, read books he encourages us and says, ‘This is life, don’t wait for something to happen because nothing happens in the end and unfortunately you realize this very late and by then you can’t do anything.’

‘This is all a drama, if you have the right attitude to live then enjoy every moment in whatever circumstances you are. That is the only thing that you will gain in life,’ he often says.

Now I do understand the reason for his love for food, his love for people, discussions, gossip, interaction, his love for seeing new places and with that his love to shower people with gifts. He was always a giver and his boisterous laughter always echoed in our house. Laughter is very essential and portrays happiness and joy in a family. There are very few people I have seen laughing so openly.

He says, ‘Everyone has to pass his time but if you pass this time enjoying every moment, then this is what belongs to you, that is what you gain, the rest is rubbish. All else is useless. Bas enjoy life, wahi apna hai baki sab kuch bekar hai [enjoy life, that is what you have, rest all is futile].’

‘Something happens and we say, “Look how strange life is. We don’t know what will happen the next moment.” Actually that is what life is, you don’t know what will happen in any moment. Had we known it, it would not have been life. At least not what we know as life. Not being able to know what lies in store is life.’

‘But, Dadoo, is this all not philosophy?’ I interrupt.

He shakes his head, ‘To live a beautiful life you have to philosophize it sometimes.’ And then he goes back, ‘Moh—maya are two things that hang like a curse on our heads, we can’t escape them,’ then he contradicts, ‘But these are the crucial anchors and provide zest to life.’

‘Can’t a man be brave and bold enough to live alone?’ I ask casually.

‘Everyone needs support in life. We need company to enjoy things. A lone man is a scared man. If I need help today I will count my friends, relatives; I may not avail it but their presence is a source of comfort.’

‘What is relationship?’ I probe.

‘If you take out relationship what is left: eating, defecating, sleeping! Nothing more. It is the soul that brain and body asks for.’

‘Life is so complicated,’ I complain.

‘In one way it is simple too. Enjoy “now”. There is no later. What you can do today, you will not be able to do tomorrow. So “now” is the time to enjoy. Once you have basic security – food, shelter, clothes, and a regular income – why waste time, live to the fullest. There is nothing if you look at the world in the materialistic or even in spiritual sense. Your happiness is all that matters every day for you. Saving money is useless unless you enjoy spending it. Property is meaningless if you can’t use it, my father left lots of lands and even money. I did not use it, so it is waste. There is a hundred bigha land in our village, Kuljar, lying waste not being used. What is it for me?’

‘Everything is temporary and nothing is permanent except change.’

I nod.

‘You have to spend the time allotted to you, time kaatna hai bas [we just have to kill time that is all]. I have seen the world. I visited England and America during the time when very few ventured to these far off places, it was considered wasting money, very few had seen the world at that time. It’s easy now,’ he reminisces, ‘but I did what I wanted to.’

‘You come to Solan, don’t worry about building a house. I can afford to feed you. It is just two of you. No worry at all. Don’t buy land, don’t build a house. I have enough.’

43

Since our childhood we have heard Dadoo talk relentlessly about the importance of education and the need to promote people in different fields.

‘Even being handicapped,’ he said, ‘cannot stop anyone from learning. There can be different ways, different schools and you will always find a way to be educated.’

His thrust was not only to educate everyone in our extended family or in his village but also in the families of his friends. He would tell us stories of his three friends whom he had sent abroad to England and America for further studies. They later settled down in these far off lands where they became rich and succeeded professionally. Two of them died last year. The third still calls him and credits him for making his life.

It was Dadoo who despite all family pressures sent my differently abled cousin to study in Delhi. He was the one who ran hither and thither with forms for different courses not only for his daughter and sons but also for those of his brother’s and neighbours.

I realize that one of the biggest reason why Dadoo could not get along with Mamma’s brother – my mama – was this: Daddy said that Mamma’s father had done very wrong by not educating both his children. Moreover, her brother was indulging in a greater wrong, a sin, towards his children by not taking proper care of their education.

He felt that money, power, fame is nothing compared to an educated mind. Education brings you security, satisfaction and of course with it comes the practicality of life, including money, power and fame. But it does not happen vice versa.

He never gave tuitions for money. I asked him once, ‘What if someone wants to learn and someone wants to teach. Is it not right that the teacher teaches and student learns and pays the fees? What is wrong with this arrangement?’

He said thoughtfully, ‘It is not wrong on the part of the student but it is morally and consciously wrong on the part of the teacher, since he does not do his work properly in the classroom, that is why the student wants to learn outside the class.’

Many of his students would come to the staff room and also to our house with their problems. He would attend to their queries.

When the tuitions were banned in Himachal in 1992, he was extremely excited and happy. He wrote numerous letters to editors and to the chief minister’s office lauding the decision. He also taught many poor children at home, students who were not even in his class. He said, ‘It is better that I clear their doubts otherwise they will lag behind because they do not have money for private tuitions.’

Sometimes I feel that he could have started an academy and taught for free. It would have kept him mentally and physically alert.

44

25 June 2011

I am reading the book Who Moved My Cheese?

‘What is this book about?’ Dadoo asks.

‘It is …’ I trail off, how do I explain?

‘What is cheese?’ he asks intrigued.

‘It is …’

‘Paneer,’ says Mamma.

Daddy frowns, ‘Does it mean, who moved my paneer?’ he asks innocently. I just don’t know what to say as tears fill my eyes. I recall some three years back he had read this book and said, ‘The writer has explained changes and challenges in life in an interesting way.’ And now cheese is paneer!

Suddenly he shifts gears, ‘What is Deepu’s position? Is he working in a bank?’

‘Yes, Dadoo, he works in a bank, he is the vice president.’

‘Vice president, is this a senior position?’

‘Yes, Dadoo, very high position.’

‘Which bank?’

‘Deutsche Bank, this is a German bank.’

‘Does this bank have a branch in India too?’

‘No, Dadoo’ I want to keep it simple.

‘So that means he cannot be transferred to India?’

‘No, Dadoo, moreover he is very senior, there is no position of an equivalent level here in India.’

‘Oh! What position does he hold at the bank?’

‘Vice president.’

‘Really! In which bank?’

‘It is a German Bank.’

‘Can he not be transferred here?’ There is no stopping him, he goes on and on till I pick up the book and leave the room to escape.

45

2 July 2011

We take Dadoo for a walk on the forest road. He loved this stretch, and used to say, ‘Early in the morning a brisk walk brings bounce and vitality.’ Today he is very hyper. Some of this energy will be released in a brisk walk, Rohit thinks.

‘I have a piece of land on the way,’ he says.

‘It is not on this road, Dadoo,’ I hastily reply.

‘I know there is, you do not know. I have a plot somewhere here and another one a little ahead. It has been a long time since I have been here. Now I have forgotten everything,’ he whispers.

I am quiet, so is Rohit. There is no use arguing with him.

‘Rohit, do you know the patwari [village accountant] of this area?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘Ask him to get the details of this land. But what will one patwari do, I have so many plots, they are scattered at different places. For each area there will be a different patwari. You will have to ask each one of them to help you in identification, only then will we get to know the exact details,’ he says seriously.

‘I will get the details,’ Rohit murmurs.

‘I have another plot near the water tanks. It is an amazing plot – totally flat and sunny. It is a first class plot. Let us go there,’ he says excitedly.

‘The tanks are in different direction, we will go there some other time,’ I say exasperated.

‘Okay, then let us see the ones that are on this road. Here if we keep on walking I have a plot ahead of the village. I have at least ten to fifteen plots here in all,’ he says confidently pointing vaguely.

He is scaring me.

‘I have a plot in Shimla too.’

‘Yes, you do,’ I lie.

‘Where is it?’ he asks quickly.

‘Near Tara Devi,’ I sheepishly look at Rohit, he smiles. We have become polished conspirators.

‘Is there a house on that plot?’

‘No, Dadoo, just a plot.’

‘Is it lying unattended?’

‘It is safe, Dadoo, no one has encroached it.’

‘Is it fenced? Is there a boundary wall there?’

‘Yes, Dadoo,’ I sigh.

‘Is it safe?’

‘Yes, Dadoo.’

‘When we go from Solan to Shimla, there is a place on the way and I have a plot there too.’

‘Yes, Dadoo it is in Tara Devi only,’ I say firmly. This is just too much. There is a need to stop this conversation. How much will we lie!

‘No, there is another place, which place is this?’ he persists.

‘Kandaghat.’

‘No, what comes after that?’

‘Shoghi.’

‘Yes, I have a plot there too. I don’t know where else I have plots, I have forgotten. We will have to enquire.’

‘Okay, Dadoo, we will try to locate these,’ I assure him. I am scared, what if he asks me to take him to his plot in Shoghi? Oh God, Ritika – my friend – has a plot there, I will tell him that it belongs to him!

46

We often make comparisons between the elderly and children. So many times one has heard, ‘Take care of the old people, they behave like kids.’

In reality, this is so different. It drains you completely. Children learn new things every day while old people forget things daily. Taking care of the elderly does not mean mere boarding and lodging, you should have ample time in your hands to listen to their stories, to answer their questions repeatedly and explain things to them patiently. You should also have time to take care of their daily routine – bathing, combing their hair, wiping their mouth clean after meals, cutting their hair and nails …. It is a mammoth task.

The elderly have a baggage full of experiences and they have rigid habits. They live with their successes and failures. Even when they are losing their memory, their brain cells keep on throwing up these strains anywhere, anytime. Remembering and not-remembering at the same time sets in motion an unending chain of despair. Patients with dementia lose all their behaviour patterns and acquired learning. Their minds are broken and they are not sure of anything. Being awake and being in a dream is the same for them. One day they keep on crying and the next day they are completely withdrawn and quiet. On some days they sit with their head in their hands in sheer despair while on others they are hyper-active.

With their ability to give meaning to the world around them gone, they resemble a little baby but this is not a happy state. This is not the innocence of a small child. This is a chaotic world of a man who is not able to come to terms with what is happening to him. Watching him losing his mind is agonizing and breaks you down physically and mentally.

47

3 August 2011

Today was a great day. I got a call from Dadoo on my cell phone after I don’t know how many weeks. There was no Vikram or Mamma to help him out with the number: He dialled my number himself, and he was so alert and so full of life, laughing boisterously.

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘I am in the library.’

‘What are you doing there?’

‘I am working on a book on Bilaspur.’

‘Oh. Do you know the name Amrit Lal, a very important man of Bilaspur?’

‘Of course he was my Dada, your father,’ I said happily.

‘Do you know he was the adviser to the Raja of Bilaspur.’

‘Yes,’ I mumble.

‘Well, he was not exactly adviser, more a consultant. He didn’t get paid through the royal treasury; you have to write the truth. It won’t be nice if you distort the truth,’ he said gravely.

I was amused. ‘What about you? Dadoo, were you the first MA in Bilaspur state?’ I asked.

‘I am not sure but I think I was the first MA and also I was the first Bilaspuri to join as a lecturer in government college. All the others were from outside the state. If you want all this information you should talk to Malkiet, he knows everything.’

My heart gladdened, it is after months that he remembered this name on his own. ‘I will do that,’ I said.

He persisted, ‘You will have to go Bilaspur and ask other people. Don’t write a book that is not true and something which will hurt the sentiments of others.’

I feel guilty. Is he talking about himself?

‘You will not do that, will you?’ he persisted.

‘No, Dadoo, I will not do that.’

‘I have heard that my pension has increased.’

‘Yes, Dadoo.’

‘By how much?’

‘About two thousand rupees.’

He laughs happily, ‘So now I am a rich man.’

‘Yes, you are,’ I reply affectionately.

‘Even your father-in-law’s pension has increased.’

‘Yes. Everyones’ pay has increased.’

‘I see. Where are you?’

‘In the library.’

‘Yes, yes, you told me. I forgot.’ he says. ‘How long will you be there?’

‘Another two hours.’

‘Okay, when you go home call me,’ and he disconnected the call.

These two minutes were so different, it was as if I was talking to a different man. But I know I should not be over ambitious. There is no cure for this disease. It is just as the doctor says that in between he will have flashes of normality and I guess this was one.

What kind of a person have I become? When he behaves normally I feel he is not normal, it is just a phase. How very comfortably we adjust to situations.

48

11 August 2011

Today was ‘plant day’ for my darling Dadoo. Since morning he had called up more than ten times and interestingly on all the three phones – my cell phone, Rohit’s cell phone and the landline. Surprisingly it has been after a long time that Dadoo talked about his plants.

His passion is gardening and for several years after retirement he has been concentrating on it. Our house is popularly known as phoolon wali kothi (house of flowers).

And as they say everything is fair in love and war so is it for my Dadoo in terms of plants. He will steal, beg and lie to procure the plants that he wants. Several times he has embarrassed us by entering peoples’ houses uninvited, requesting them to give him specific plants. Any town he visited, he would always go to the nursery or park. Even in hospitals where he went to visit family members or friends, he would get engrossed in the plants around.

Once I remember, in Rock Garden, Chandigarh, he kind of, well to put it bluntly, stole a plant and hid it in his coat pocket. I was so worried that someone would catch hold of us. This was wrong and it was pure theft but you could not argue with Dadoo. He said, ‘Don’t worry, I am going to give life to this plant.’ And then as months went by he started neglecting this passion and concentrated more on other stressful things – land, files, income tax, and of course what was happening to him.

Any way, it was a delight for me to talk to him in the morning. All the ten times the conversation went on like this:

‘Rewa, when are you coming?’

‘Day after tomorrow,’ pat I replied. I am getting comfortable in this mould of pretension and lies, knowing very well that my replies would give him momentary joy and he would forget about it soon.

‘Mera ek kaam tha [I had one job for you].’

‘Yes, Dadoo,’ I murmur. Dread clutching my heart, what would it be and will I be able to do it. May be he had lost a file or is going to ask me whether there was any remedy for his illness but he surprised me, ‘When you come day after tomorrow bring some plants.’

Delightedly I said, ‘Of course, how many do you want?’

‘Bring around twenty or twenty-five and two types of plants.’

Though I did not understand, I was happy.

‘Aadhe jo zameen par lagte hain aur adhe jo gamlon mein [some that can only be planted on the ground and others for the pots],’ he says explaining.

‘I got it, very well, Dadoo, I will get these,’ I replied.

‘From where will you bring them?’

‘There is a nursery nearby,’ I said.

‘When are you coming?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

‘Toh mera ek kaam hai.’

‘Hanji, Dadoo, your plants.’

‘Yes, but do not bring rose, I have many.’

‘Achha ji,’ I say.

‘How much would they cost?’

I quickly say, ‘One plant for five rupees.’ I have no idea about the rate of plants but this price seemed comfortably low.

‘Five rupees, that is very expensive,’ he exclaims.

‘I will try to bring them for free,’ I reply blatantly lying.

‘Do you know someone in the nursery?’

‘Of course, my friend works there.’ Another lie.

‘Okay,’ he was satisfied with this reply. I put the phone down and then after every two minutes it rang and the same conversation took place. On Rohit’s phone too he spoke about plants. Only there was one difference, once during these phone calls he said, ‘When you go to the nursery and you are selecting the plants give me a call. I want to speak to the gardener personally about what I require.’

Oh, how I wish I could make him talk to the gardener!

49

11 August 2011

Today was another difficult day, after a long time. By a long time I mean two weeks since the medicine has been changed again. Yesterday Dadoo was so calm. I can’t say happy but I can’t even say that he was restless. Things were fine but today in the morning everything went haywire.

Just as I took a bath he woke up. There was so much misery, helplessness, insecurity and fear on his face. ‘How can you go? Don’t go? What will happen to me? I don’t know anything about myself, my mind does not work. I don’t remember anything, I have so many problems. I don’t know where my papers are. The whole night I did so much of work,’ he poured out. He has started hallucinating, he dreams but he thinks they are real.

‘I sorted out everything but now in the morning there is nothing. What should I do? My name is Jagdev Verma, isn’t it?’ and he started sobbing. There was so much of agony on this beloved face. I sat down taking his hand in mine and murmuring assurances, ‘Dadoo, there is no problem.’

He kept crying, ‘You don’t understand, I am no more a man now. What will happen? Who will solve all my problems?

‘There is no problem,’ I assured him.

Mamma said, ‘Why are you behaving like this?’ and then instantly realized he was so helpless; he just did not know. Tears brimmed in her eyes when he said, ‘Can I go with you to Shimla?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘No,’ Mamma said. I fiercely looked at Mamma. He was still weeping and then I asked, ‘Why do you want to go to Shimla, Dadoo?’

Between sobs he said, ‘I have to go for a check-up, to a doctor. I want to show myself, my mind is not working, my body is not well.’

‘Fine,’ I said taking a long breath to cool my mind, ‘We will fix an appointment.’

He stopped crying instantly and looked up at me with a ray of hope in his eyes, ‘Is he a good doctor?’

‘Yes, a very good doctor.’

‘He checks brain?’

I nodded.

‘Will he give me a certificate?’

‘A certificate?’ I asked surprised.

‘Yes, I need a certificate that my brain is not working. Nothing is in my hands, I am no more a normal person.’

‘But Dadoo—’

‘—Then I can use that certificate when they come to catch me.’

‘Who will come to catch you, Dadoo?’ I am perplexed.

‘The ones who will take away my money and also the other ones,’ he mumbled.

I looked at Rohit enquiringly who had joined us. He too was confused I could sense.

‘It is not a fake certificate,’ Dadoo persists, ‘My brain is really not working.

I nod, ‘Okay.’

He is a little relieved but pain throbbed in my whole being. He must be feeling so very helpless to plan about such a certificate: An open letter declaring that he is not well and cannot do anything, so whatever goes wrong he or his family should not be punished whether monetarily or otherwise.

What a paradigm shift! Till now he was always very reluctant to share what was going on in his mind with anyone else except his family. He pretended to be normal so that people didn’t laugh at him or realize that he is losing his mind but today he is openly saying he wants a certificate for that. Then he starts crying again, ‘Don’t go, don’t go,’ he mumbles, ‘Let Rohit go.’

I decide not to go and convey it to him. Mamma intervenes again, ‘She has to go, how can Rohit go alone?’

Dadoo is confused with tears running down his cheek. I hug him and say, ‘Dadoo, don’t worry, I am not going.’ And then a little later he mumbles, ‘No, you go. I am not in a good mood, it’s all out of my control.’

‘It is fine, Dadoo.’

‘Will you come in the evening?’

‘Yes.’ All lies again but just to reassure him. And as we move away two things strike me: One, he does not come down on the road to say bye as he always did earlier; and second in the last fortnight I had received very few phone calls from him. Both these thoughts lay heavy on my heart because it is another shift. When I reach home in Shimla I call him, thankfully he is calm.

50

Yesterday I went to meet Sapna again. I got strength from her. She actually knew what was happening to Dadoo. I liked listening to what happened to aunty and how they coped with it, this reassured me. There was no pretension, no formalities, no polite talk with Sapna as I talked about Dadoo. She, on the other hand, narrated her trauma and how her healthy, sane mother-in-law changed.

Once they had to go to attend a marriage and Sapna got ready, she was all decked up with jewellery and a fine sari. They instructed their maid to take care of her. As their pet dog had a special bonding with her, they left it in her room. When they came back from the marriage they heard that the dog was making a lot of whimpering noise. Anxiety ridden they went in and saw that Rahul’s mother was sitting on the floor clutching her disheveled hair and crying. She was mumbling that someone had taken all her jewellery and ran away. Then she saw Sapna and started screaming and attacked her, ‘Give all my jewellery back, you have stolen it. How dare you wear my jewels.’ A stunned and hurt Sapna made up a story that she had taken the jewellery after taking permission from her. This did not pacify her and she screamed, ‘I know that you had taken the permission from me but I had not asked you to go to the market with this jewellery, what if someone had stolen it. You should have stayed inside the house with it, this is not to be shown to anyone. It belongs to my mother.’ Sapna was bewildered, because it was the jewellery given to her by her mother!

Then Rahul’s mother took all of it from Sapna and hid it in the clothes so that no one steals it again.

‘It was a traumatizing period, we did not know how she will react,’ said Sapna, ‘Then she developed this craze about cleaning the cupboards, she would throw everything on the floor and then tried to put the things back again, but she failed to put the things properly. Or she would pick up clothes from the cupboard and look at them intently for a while and then start crying inconsolably. It became so unbearable for us that in the end we had to empty the cupboards. We feared that it will somehow hurt her emotionally.’

‘But then at times she would sit in front of empty cupboards,’ added Rahul, ‘and she would act as if she was folding the clothes and putting those in the cupboard, whereas there were no clothes. It was so painful for us to see her like that but what to do?’

‘I used to cry for hours, but it never helped,’ said Sapna.

‘In fact I think she cried more than my mother during this phase,’ said Rahul sympathetically.

‘That is why I say to you, Rewa, please do not cry, you and your family have to go a long way. Crying does not help, it makes things worse, much worse for everyone,’ she said taking my hand.

‘We could not share this with anyone, that was another burden,’ she mumbled. ‘People made fun of her initially when we tried to tell them, the expression on their faces and their questions were such that we decided not to tell anyone, that made us more vulnerable and alone in this long struggle,’ she added.

‘In her last years my mother thought that Sapna was her daughter. She felt that this daughter is the only one who takes care of her, who knows who she was and who gave her food and took care of her daily needs. That helped at times to keep her in control but then that meant that Sapna had to be with her all the time. She became so restless if Sapna moved away even for a minute,’ Rahul recalled.

‘Yeah, she did not even allow me to go to the loo. Sometimes she would think that I was her mother or sister. And that was sad and funny at the same time,’ remembered Sapna. ‘For ten years I was inside the house, with her, I could not go anywhere. I was scared to leave her. I feared that she would hurt herself if I was not with her. But yes this disease changed me completely, it changed the way I looked, behaved, talked and did things. I aged so quickly. Rahul’s brothers and sisters are abroad. They would come once in a year or two years, and that did not add to comfort. In fact that meant more work. I dreaded anyone coming to our house, my hands were full and that is why I did not keep in touch with anyone for years.’

‘Oh Sapna, what all have you gone through!’ I cried in anguish.

‘The best ten years of her life, when she was young and full of desires and energy, were spent taking care of my mother,’ said Rahul looking lovingly at her, ‘now we have decided to do whatever we want to do. To hell with everything, we try to enjoy every moment,’ he added.

‘Sometimes I wonder about life, it changes gears with a situation and we think what if … but that does not change things a wee bit. We all have our paths to follow, I don’t know if these are pre-decided or we choose them but there is no escape. We might think that we could have done a thing differently but that is just thoughts, in the end it is only one way and rest is all thoughts and imagination. Reality is always what you are living,’ Sapna said philosophically.

51

4 October 2011

The report of Dadoo’s second MRI had come. It was unexpected, a very bad report. His brain cells have degenerated to a large extent and the degeneration was in a very fast mode. The doctor wrote that he was a patient of acute dementia.

I was waiting for a miracle but the truth is the truth. The doctor also said that soon he will lose all his senses and the name of the dreadful disease, which I have read so many times but never thought would happen to my loving and brilliant father – Alzheimer’s – would hit him.

Lot of things ran in my mind, I saw my grandmother now sure that she too had Alzheimer’s. My friend Sapna’s mother-in-law for nearly one year had been kept locked in a room because she would stroll out alone in the night and she had also become dangerous: Once from the kitchen she had taken a knife and reached Sapna’s bedroom; thankfully they were awake.

Sapna told me that in the beginning her mother-in-law used to go to the kitchen and start cutting vegetables, onions, potatoes at two in the morning. The whole day she would sleep and in the night she would remain awake, she had also started going out of the house alone, so in the end they had locked her in the room.

Will the same happen to my father? My heart clutched with fear, though a practical part told me that if we have to keep him safe, we too would have to take this route.

I discussed this with Rohit. Positive that he is, he said, ‘Daddy is very lucky that he will not be dependent financially on any one. What we should concentrate on doing as his children is to make his life comfortable and respectful. Give him all the love that he had showered on us. It doesn’t matter if he will not be able to understand anything. The other thing is to keep a full-time nurse with him.’ I agreed but it was so difficult to find someone suitable. Some times even money cannot help.

52

18 October 2011

How time flies. For the last couple of years it was in my mind that a day would come when he will forget me too. He has started forgetting Rohit already.

Last night after Rohit had finished going through his accounts and informed him of being a rich man – a crorepati, we left for our room.

Dadoo giggled like a small boy. He was elated about becoming such a wealthy man. When we left he asked Mamma, ‘Who is this man who was checking my accounts?’

‘He is our son-in-law.’

‘Which one?’

‘Rewa’s husband.’

It is a Catch-22 situation. I want him to know who I am and on the other hand I want this transition phase to be over so that he is oblivious of everything around him. It is so painful watching him going through this, straining his brain, asking questions – how much money do I have, who opened this bank account, when I go to Shimla where do I stay, do I stay with you, how many children does my son have, where does Rohit stay, have I taken my medicine, is Rohit a doctor, can he check my brain, does he know good doctors – it just kills me. Though I know that he has lived a good life.

Often he tells us, ‘You have to take care of your mother. Now I am nothing, Asha has no one else.’ Only if he knew how much he has taken care of her, both financially and emotionally. When he disappears, she will be the richest lady in our extended family. She came from a rich background and she will remain rich till the end. The amount of money, and houses that he is going to leave behind, which he had invested sensibly on a teacher’s salary is mind boggling.

One thing that brings him out of depression but also in a way puts him in tension is his land record and money in the banks. How very difficult it must be for him to not know exactly what he has or for that matter what he has but no one knows that he has. Presently he has only vague recollections.

And when he puts strain on these vague recollections, they become a reality for him. For example, if he had seen a piece of land somewhere sometime in his past, he thinks he had bought it. Explaining to him is of no significance because it gets more firm in his mind that he has a land there. He frantically searches for its detail in his files. And when he gets nothing he feels that the papers and files have been lost and now duplicate copies have to be taken. We too have become so used to all this, we just say yes, a plot is there and another one there, duplicate papers will be taken from the officials.

It brings me back to the thought about how very adjusting and compatible human nature is. Just a few years back the thought of lying to him never came to our minds. But now how very smoothly we go about it!

‘Yes, we are coming day after tomorrow … yes, we will come again … yes, we will take leave.’ Sometimes, these are not blatant lies but they are not totally true too. The family has fit in comfortably into his form, even I have forgotten when and where we erased this line between truth and lies.

Vikram, he tells us, has to write and we have to help him with his book.

I nod.

‘You will have to go with Vikram to different places for research. But then Rohit will be alone here. That is a problem. But it does not matter we will come and take care of him. It is a big project. Lot of time will be consumed in working on it. But you have to look at your house too, and take care of Rohit. That is more important. Vikram is on leave, for him it does not matter,’ I nod, understanding that he has lost his power to judge things.

‘You are already shining, now he has to shine,’ he says. I nod again.

‘I am so proud of you, beta. Whether your books get sold or not, the work that you have done is wonderful. Vikram cannot write this kind of book on his own. He will work through you. Maximum input will be yours. I am telling you this now because I don’t remember things later. How much do you get from your books?’

‘Only five thousand rupees a month,’ this amount seems to be appropriate, I calculate – less, not more.

‘Open a PPF account, put this money there because you don’t need it now. Your name comes in newspapers and magazines. Beta satisfaction is much more important than money. People know you and this gives you pleasure. This is a big thing.’

‘I will do so, Dadoo.’

‘My younger son, is he an officer?’

‘Yes, Dadoo, in the bank.’

‘Is he a big man?’

I nod.

‘What is he, a manager?’

‘Vice president.’

He doesn’t like the sound of it. ‘Of one bank only?’ he asks.

‘Many banks are under him, he is incharge of several branches.’

Now he is happy. ‘A very high position,’ he mumbles.

53

30 October 2011

The obsession which turns to desperation is his desire for us to settle near him. He wants his children all around him ignoring that they too have a family of their own.

He talks about this innumerable time in different ways: You can build a house here in Solan, we will be together. You can build a house on any of my lands, have you thought of settling down in Solan? He is so desperate that even basic logic does not register with him. When you remind him that Rohit has parents in Una he says, ‘Bring them here too, what are they doing there?’

Now I see very little of his former self, just a few glimpses here and there.

Recently I saw this glimpse. When I told him that we were planning to buy a flat in Shimla, just for the sake of having an asset, he immediately decided to shell out fifty per cent money for this purpose. To our surprise he asked us the price and made the calculations, ‘It is a good bargain, I will also put my share and then after a couple of years when the property value will appreciate we can sell it.’ I was delighted.

On another instance he advised me to put some amount of money in FDs for future. ‘If you are saving some money every month then your future will be secure. You can also open a PPF account. Then the interest money keeps adding to your pension. Financial stability is very important in life.’

I was staring at him dazed. He noticed this puzzled expression on my face and explained, ‘I have deposited ten lakh rupees each in the names of Asha and myself. Some savings are fine but not all money is to be saved. Money is to be enjoyed.’

‘If you want to construct a house in Solan you can construct it on the roof of the house that we are living in. I have constructed two houses, one for Deepak and one for Vikram. You can also settle here. It is your wish, there is no pressure. Choose as per your wishes. If you think Solan is okay, it is fine. If you think Shimla is okay, that too is okay.’

He then remembered his locker in the bank and said, ‘I want to open my locker in the bank. I haven’t checked it for many years. Someone might have opened it.’

‘It was opened on karvachauth. Vikram and Mamma had gone there.’

‘Achha? Then it is alright. I haven’t gone there for a long time.’

‘Dadoo, do you feel scared that someone will cheat you or take away your money?’

‘No, I don’t feel scared even if my hard earned money is not with me. I have my regular pension. My sons are placed well. They are earning well. Vikram gets ninety thousand rupees, I think Deepak also earns the same.’

‘You will not believe how much Deepak earns!’

‘I think he also earns the same as Vikram.’

‘No, he earns more, much more.’ I emphasize.

He ignores this. ‘I have also deposited money in the name of Maya, my sister.’

‘Yes,’ I mumble. This was some twenty years back.

‘Do you remember whether I deposited that seventy thousand rupees cheque in bank?’ he asks suddenly.

‘Yes, you did.’

‘Are you sure? I don’t remember. Were you with me?’

‘Yes, Dadoo.’

54

30 December 2011

He always picks up the phone though he remembers nothing. May be he is hoping that he will remember. The undying love for his children in a way too makes him attack the phone on the first ring. Fortunately all his children call him every day. Anyway here is a general conversation:

‘Hello, my Dadoo,’ I say excitedly.

‘Haan, mere bachhoo [yes, my child],’ he says laughingly.

‘What are you doing, Dadoo?’ as I say this I know he will get confused so I quickly add, ‘has the newspaper come?’

‘Is there some news?’ he asks curiously.

‘No, I am just asking.’

‘It has not come yet,’ he says sadly.

‘Do not worry it will come soon.’

‘What is your programme?’ he asks, ‘When are you coming?’

With a heavy heart, I lie, knowing that he will forget, ‘Day after tomorrow.’

He laughs and happily says, ‘Very good, did Rohit get leave?’

I lie again, ‘Yes, Dadoo.’

‘This is very good, I feel so lonely and I miss you a lot.’

‘Yes, Dadoo,’ I mumble. My heart cringes and squeezes with a sadness that comes from deep inside me.

‘Jaldi-jaldi darshan de diya karo [you must come to visit me more often].’

I get a jolt – ‘darshan’! Oh how very sad it is that your parents now request you in this way but then I have to be brave and practical and I try to ignore his statement.

‘Go to the market in the afternoon, you will feel good.’

‘It is no use I do not meet anyone I know, I don’t know where they have all gone?’ he says pathetically. Before I reply he asks, ‘When are you coming?’

‘Dadoo, day after tomorrow.’

He laughs, ‘Very good, did you get leave?’

I say, ‘Yes, Dadoo, where is Mamma?’ I ask.

‘She must be here only.’

I am about to ask him to call Mamma when he says, ‘When are you coming?’ And I repeat patiently my mind raking to change the track of conversation.

But it is too late, now he is focused on this topic.

It is as if he is stuck there and in less than one minute he asks me the same thing five times. How quickly he has started forgetting.

55

2 January 2012

Today was another such day when he was really muddled up.

‘Did Rohit get leave?’

‘Yes, Dadoo.’

‘For how many days? One month?’

I exclaim, ‘Dadoo, can he get leave for one month?’

He is surprised on the other end, ‘But don’t you have to write the book?’ he asks incredulously.

Oh God! He is thinking that I am Vikram. I patiently say, ‘Dadoo, that is not me, Vikram has to write the book.’

‘Is it not you?’ he asks confused.

‘No, Dadoo, I am Rewa.’

‘I know that,’ he mumbles on the other side still unsure, ‘Now my mind doesn’t work. Is there no medicine for this?’

And as before, may be a thousand times, always at a loss for words, when he says this I say, ‘Dadoo, don’t worry, don’t think too much.’

‘Par main kya karoon, mera dimaag bilkul khatam ho gaya hai [but what can I do I have lost my mind completely],’ he mumbles, ready to cry.

‘There must be some medicine for it?’ he asks.

It goes on and on. I put the phone down, he may call again. I know that when I talk to him for the first time something triggers in his brain may be he remembers me and then forgets that he has already talked to me and keeps on calling. What does a man become? But then again for the millionth time I say to myself, he is eighty, he has lived a good life and he is not dependent on anyone. One day he has to go like everyone else. I am lucky to still have him and what matters in the end is love. He loves me and I love him.

56

8 January 2012

I am here in Solan spending a few days with Dadoo, trying to understand how he passes a typical day, how he handles himself in the outside world. And I can only say that he is a brave man. I think at times like this our instinct to survive takes over and everyone becomes brave. It is genetic, so ingrained in each one of us. Unfortunately we fail to see and recognize this survival spirit in the comfort zone that we have created with the growth of civilization. More alarming is that we are losing this instinct, our comforts are making us shallow and meek.

The first thing I do when I get up is to switch on the TV and announce, ‘We have to watch the news.’ He looks at me in surprise. ‘Is there something special?’ He asks.

‘Yes, Dadoo.’

‘What?’ he enquires anxiously.

‘Just watch,’ I murmur putting on DD News. In between his attention wavers but I say ‘Look, look,’ and he gets back to listening to the news. We have tea with biscuits which, as I nibble, I tell him are very tasty. He looks at them suspiciously. I ignore him. Then he picks one up. When he has finished eating I exclaim, ‘Weren’t they tasty?’ he frowns and mutters, ‘Theek hai [they are okay],’ and then picks up another one.

Well then good, at least he has had two biscuits. After about thirty minutes of the news watching I am relieved, the newspapers have come, I can sense that he is itching to say ‘There is a lot of tension, we have to do something’. But I subtly ignore and place the paper in front of him as I leave for yoga knowing that he will read the papers for about half an hour. And I am right I have hardly finished when he comes out of the bed room, looks at me and hurriedly comes to hug me. ‘You have got up?’ he asks. I nod.

‘How is the weather outside?’

‘It is sunny, Dadoo.’

‘What is the date today?’

‘Eighth’

‘Month?’

‘January.’

‘Day.’

‘Sunday.’

‘Where is Rohit?’

‘In Delhi.’

‘When will he come back?’

‘Tonight.’

‘Then will he stay here for two-three days?’

I nod though knowing that it won’t be possible.

‘I have a lot of work. I have lot of problems. I am dependent on him,’ he says gravely.

I frantically search for a topic to change his attention and lo and behold a cat enters. He is distracted, ‘Isse bread do, isse bread do [give her some bread].’ And for the next fifteen minutes the whole family including him gets busy with the cat.

And then he tells me a story, ‘You know this cat, how we became friends?’

I shake my head.

‘Many years back, she used to come here. I used to do gardening and I would get very angry because she would spoil my plants. So whenever I saw her I would scream at her loudly and throw pebbles and even a slipper to scare her off. But, because there was a dust bin nearby, she would keep coming into the lawn for food. And then gradually I noticed that when Asha was in the lawn she would come and move around her legs rubbing herself and purring. When I came along even though I had stopped screaming at her, she would run away. I thought that this was unfair, I just wanted to protect my plants and so I started building friendship with her. It took her sometime and now she is my friend. Why I am telling you this is because like us animals too have feelings, they are also scared of being hit or of dying and they also want to be loved. If you look at the basic instincts, forget about brain, education and modernization just survival and love, they are very similar to us.’

‘This cat initially used to run away on seeing me. But then she saw that I was not chasing her. And she slowly started staying back though at a safe distance in the beginning. Then I started calling her. She realized that this man wants to love her. Now the situation is that she stays with me, around me.’ We are now outside in the lawn. I am thinking of what he has told me. Then I dramatically announce, ‘Dadoo, all your plants are drying.’ This makes him move fast.

‘This is not so,’ he says anxiously, looking intently at a potted plant where a flower, purple and yellow, is blooming. To my chagrin I realize that this plant is well-watered and then in a corner I do find a plant, which looks dry and I take him there.

As expected this activates him, so another half an hour goes in which he potters and waters his plants. Breakfast is ready. Mamma calls out. He looks at her angrily and snaps, ‘I have already eaten.’

Mamma gets irritated. I intervene. ‘Don’t call him for the next fifteen minutes,’ I whisper to Mamma. And to him I say loudly, ‘Dadoo, you want to take a bath?’ He shakes his head slightly. ‘You will feel good,’ I say matter of factly.

‘Okay, then I will bathe,’ I say.

‘Is the water hot?’ he asks.

I nod. He insists, ‘Have you checked.’ I nod. He persists, ‘Did you switch on … what is it called …’ he stutters.

‘Geyser. Yes,’ I say.

‘I don’t want to bathe,’ he replies.

‘Okay then, I will go.’ So I go to take my bath, he follows me to the bathroom repeating the same things.

After fifteen minutes he is sitting with his breakfast of methi aur makki ki roti and dahi. And he happily tells me, ‘See how tasty this is. Sabji and roti together in one,’ he adds.

Suddenly his attention is diverted, ‘I have a lot of problems,’ he mumbles. I nod. ‘And you know I forget what problems I have.’ I nod.

‘You remember them and then tell them to Rohit, he will solve them.’

I nod.

‘When is he coming?’

‘Should we go to the market, Dadoo?’ I ask to divert his attention.

‘Market?’ he asks surprised.

I nod vigorously. ‘Let us go.’

‘Will Asha go? And Vikram?’ he asks happily.

I know he loves market and people and he wants company.

‘We will ask them,’ I say adding, ‘get ready.’

A few minutes later he comes out wearing the vest on top of the shirt.

I gently tell him, ‘Dadoo, this is not a sweater.’

He gets agitated, ‘Why, this is a sweater.’

I can see anxiety and tension on his face. Vikram takes over. ‘It is a sweater but we are going to wear another sweater.’

‘Why?’ he snaps at him.

‘Because this is not going with your pant, see this is brown while the pant is navy blue,’ he explains.

He glowers at him, looking down at his pants. Vikram has already brought the sweater and coaxingly makes him change. ‘Why is Asha not coming?’ he snaps.

‘She is not well,’ I say.

He mulls this over and then goes inside, ‘We need money,’ he mumbles. Mamma gives him three hundred rupees, ‘Is it enough?’ he whispers to her.

She gives a small nod and I quickly intervene, ‘They are a lot, Dadoo, let us go.’

He looks at Vikram, ‘Vikram, are you not coming? Both my daughter and son with me, I will feel so good.’ He smiles.

Vikram is speechless but before he can find words to react I take hold of Dadoo’s elbow and say, ‘Let Vikram do his work, it is only going to be Rewa and Dadoo together.’

He laughs heartily and we step down on the road.

57

As we walk down the road towards the market, he says with all seriousness, ‘I have lived here for so many years and I don’t know anyone here. I don’t meet anyone in the market.’

‘Where have all these people gone?’ he shakes his head.

I am at a loss. Fifty years he has stayed in Solan and how come he doesn’t meet anyone whom he knows.

He goes on, ‘Now watch, I will not meet a single person whom I know. What do they do sitting cooped up in their houses?’ he asks innocently.

I want to say may be they are all dead but I refrain myself. It will hurt him.

‘No one comes to our house and we go to no one’s house,’ he laments.

Does this happen in old age, I wonder! All your friends disappear. He had a lot of friends when he was young. Anyway I am alert and as we move ahead some four or five people greet him. A few he acknowledges and the others he doesn’t even get to know that they are greeting him. It strikes me – his memory.

Memory loss is not so simple. Like I keep on telling him, ‘So what if you have forgotten?’ I understand he doesn’t remember these people and that is why he doesn’t know them and that is why he feels so lonely. Though people are there – his friends, acquaintances, his colleagues – but for him they are not there. His brain cells have blocked them.

When we reach the first chowk of the market and I am still contemplating about this I remember that I have to buy kishmish. The kishmish that Dadoo always bought for me. I enter the first grocery shop asking for kishmish.

The shopkeeper opens a jar and says it is for three hundred and eighty rupees a kilo. Dadoo too has followed me and snaps, ‘Theek theek lagao [give it to me for a reasonable rate].’

The shopkeeper says, ‘Verma sahib main apko hamesha theek lagata hoon [Verma-ji, I always give you at reasonable rate].’ There is a pleasant surprise on Dadoo’s face and he laughs whole heartedly.

‘You know me?’ he asks and then looks at me, ‘Come, come we will ask in some other shops too.’

I smile at the shopkeeper and we come out of the shop.

‘How does this man know me?’ he asks bewildered.

I shrug because now it is clear why he meets no one that he knows. As we stroll in the busy bazaar he stops many a times enquiring about the rates of vegetables from the hawkers and every time he asks, ‘Should we buy this?’

‘No, no, Dadoo, we don’t need it.’ I murmur sometimes pulling him and sometimes nudging him. Suddenly he remembers kishmish and brightly says, ‘We have to enquire about kishmish.’ I nod though I am cursing myself for being so stupid to have enquired about something so expensive in front of him. I could have gone quietly and bought the damn thing! Now he will remain all worked up. I am searching for a grocery shop when suddenly he stops in front of a medicine shop.

‘We will ask him.’ he says. I am bewildered, I glance at him to judge whether he is joking.

‘No, no,’ I murmur, ‘they don’t have kishmish.’

‘What is the harm in asking?’ he frowns and despite my hissing he enters the medicine shop. I have no choice, I follow him in. There is a middle-aged man behind the counter and Dadoo, to my sheer embarrassment, in his polite English enquires, ‘Do you have kishmish?’

The shopkeeper looks at him and then at me. This is my Dadoo, I have to take care of him and I will not allow anyone to be rude to him or hurt him. I move forward, I shake my head and murmur, ‘You must not be having kishmish,’ and immediately catch hold of Dadoo’s hand and say, ‘they don’t have it here, Dadoo, let us go to the next shop.’

Dadoo says ‘Thank you,’ to the stunned salesman as we move out.

I have not yet taken a sigh of relief when he enters the next shop pulling me with him, it is a hardware shop. All I can see is paint tins and pipes. There is an elderly gentleman sitting at the counter and Dadoo asks him, ‘Do you have kishmish?’

The man smiles and looks at me, may be he understands because he says, ‘Verma sahib, I don’t have kishmish but I can give you orange.’

Dadoo laughs whole heartedly, ‘You know me?’

‘Aap itne purane aadmi ho aap ko kaun nahin janta [you are an old resident, who doesn’t know you],’ and places a Tupperware box full of orange wedges in front of us. We both take a piece and thank him. Now I am getting comfortable, but I am realizing how very difficult life is for him. A simple purchase is such a big mission and how bravely he handles it everyday. When he is out on the road he is a different man – living, acting and finding his own way in his own style.

The next place that we stop at is a shop of leather bags and purses. The shopkeeper though free, turns out to be quite rude and looks at both of us as if we are bonkers when Dadoo enquires about kishmish. I become possessive, no one is going to hurt my Dadoo and firmly say, ‘Dadoo, he doesn’t have kishmish. No wonder there is no one in his shop. He earns nothing.’ As we move out of his shop I can see the shopkeeper’s nasty expression conveying what kind of idiots we are. I shrug, I don’t care. The next shop that he enters is a clothes merchant. Now I am hoping for a grocery shop to turn up quickly.

Dadoo asks the sardar-ji at the clothes counter, ‘Do you have kishmish?’ A little behind I give the sardar-ji a small smile and hug my Dadoo fondly. He understands and says, ‘Bauji, kishmish toh nahin hai par kapra le lo [I do not have raisins but you can buy cloth]. I have a lot of variety.’

Dadoo laughs whole heartedly, ‘Nahin, nahin kishmish chahiye thi sardar-ji [No, no we needed raisins].’ I murmur my thanks and we move out and then to my delight I see a grocery shop a few metres ahead and we confidently march into it. This time when he asks for raisins, I am so happy. The salesman places three jars all containing different kinds of raisins. We ultimately buy one kilogramme for two hundred rupees.

I may have lost exact count of the people who greeted him by now as we reached the mall. Must be in dozens, Dadoo you bare wrong so many people know you, I tell myself.

It is getting difficult for me to make him understand that we are short of money. After the kishmish purchase we are left with just hundred rupees and he is persistent on shopping where he sees eatables – fruits, vegetables, mithais, snacks, namkeen. A part of my mind is furiously working on how to tackle this maniac desire of his to buy anything and everything.

And the other part is planning where to go next. And then just near the coffee house he sees a wholesale shop and exclaims, ‘They have kishmish.’ Exasperated I say, ‘Dadoo, we have bought it now.’

‘No, still we should enquire at what rate he is selling, if it is cheap we can buy some more.’ And he moves into the shop, I have no choice. I follow him. The owner is busy with a couple of workers loading and unloading quintals, I vaguely register – soya bean oil, ghee, sunflower oil, as we wait for the shopkeeper to finish his work. Though Dadoo is getting impatient, but I squeeze his hand and whisper, ‘Let him finish his work.’ I am also dreading how he will react to our query. After a long slow minute the man looks at us enquiringly. Dadoo looks at me blankly. Of course he has forgotten. I am left now to deal with the situation. And to cover my nervousness I loudly ask, ‘Do you have kishmish?’ For a moment he stares at me and then says, ‘No, we do not have kishmish.’ Now Dadoo brightens up, ‘Where can we find it?’ I exhale deeply and nudge him out, ‘Dadoo, we don’t need it, we have already bought.’ I hiss. But he hardly listens to me as his eyes light up and he starts to enter Khadi Emporium, ‘They will have kishmish.’ Now I am irritated, I pull him away from the shop. ‘This is an emporium, no kishmish here,’ and then a plan forms in my mind. We will go to the new mall in Anand Complex. That will keep him busy. And I happily guide him to our destination.

‘Are you sure there will be kishmish there?’

‘Let us see,’ I say as we enter the underground complex.

I am right, he is excited. The first section at the entrance is piled with belts, bags, purses and shoes. I have to go slow and steady so that we can spend about an hour here. It is the best place, safe and exciting to keep him busy.

I pick up a purse here, a belt there to check the quality and also the price he follows me and also curiously picks up these items. As I move towards the shoes section, he is a little sceptical. ‘You want to buy shoes?’ he asks.

‘No, Dadoo, I am just looking,’ I murmur.

He reluctantly follows me.

Suddenly I remembered that shoes and clothes never were of interest to him. They were just necessities. He repeats three-four times, ‘You want to buy?’

In the end, I succumb.

‘Let’s go, Dadoo.’ I am hoping to spend as much time as possible.

As we walk down on the ramp there are some huge baskets full of chips and namkeens. Now he is engrossed. He picks up a bright orange coloured packet. ‘What is this?’ he takes out his glasses to read.

‘Ek ke saath ek free [buy one get one free],’ he reads loudly. ‘This is good,’ he says looking at me.

I nod.

‘We will buy this,’ he says happily.

‘Dadoo, first we will go around the store and then we will buy,’ I say taking the packet from his hands to put it back. He is reluctant to move from the place.

‘We will come back,’ I assure him and tuck my hand in his elbow pulling him forward. We reach the clothes section and as I start looking at the things in the men’s clothing section.

He again asks,‘You want to buy this?’

‘No, Dadoo, I am just looking.’

He follows me frowning. After he has repeated more than half a dozen times and frankly made me feel quite foolish for going around and seeing things, which I have no intention of buying. I succumb again and happily announce, ‘Let us go to the food section.’

As we move ahead, we are encountered with several other baskets full of chips and namkeens. Gleefully, he picks up a packet. ‘I tell you this is very cheap,’ he says. ‘Ek ke saath ek free!’ I again keep back the packets that he had picked soothingly murmuring, ‘Let us have a look and then we will decide.’

In the end he has selected a number of biscuit packets along with chips and namkeens and a gulab jamun mix which is also under the same scheme ‘Buy one get one free’. I calculate mentally, all this is going to cost about two hundred and fifty rupees. As we move towards the counter I keep on leaving one item after the other so that Dadoo does not see this. When we are out of the store Dadoo is happy carrying the bag containing potato chips – ek ke saath ek free. That was the only thing we bought.

58

15 January 2012

This time when we went to Solan, Dadoo told me about his dream and said that he gets tired in the night.

‘Don’t you sleep?’ I asked.

He shook his head.

‘But, Dadoo, Mamma says that you are always sleeping.’

He shook his head vigorously, ‘Either I am working or I am dreaming, all night, every night.’

I am intrigued. ‘What do you dream about?’ I ask.

‘Bahut darawne hain [they are very scary].’

‘Oh,’ but I plunge deeper, ‘what are they about?’

‘I always lose my way,’ he says, looking philosophically towards the mountains.

‘Lose your way, on the roads?’

He shook his head, ‘In houses. I want to go to the kitchen but I cannot find it. Bathroom I cannot find and where Asha is I cannot find. Everything is upside down. It makes me scared, and I realize that I am finished. How can there be sleep?’

This disease has followed him even in his sleep, the most private and safe place.

He has uncontrolled anger. Small things like his inability to find his spectacles; his wallet; his shoes or wanting to talk to Mamma but there are too many people around disturb his emotional equilibrium. Mornings are the worst for him as they begin with unfamiliar surroundings and unknown faces.

As the disease shrouds him, he leads a handicapped life. Simple routine tasks that he did all his life like reading a newspaper, watering plants and taking a stroll are becoming difficult and require special effort. He is suspicious and probably feels that the world around him is full of the unknown where he would lose his way.

‘Earlier when I used to close my eyes it was dark – everything around me was dark. But now even with my eyes open during the day, it is the same – dark,’ he says in anguish.

As he tells me about his nightmares I recall that in the past he always had a good sleep, he even took a nap in the afternoon. Now he tosses and turns. There are dreams of confusion. He wakes up howling, and sobbing uncontrollably as Mamma pacifies him, telling him he is in his own house, not lost somewhere and that she is with him. I can sense that my Dadoo is dying bit by bit.

Long back he used to say bravely, ‘So what if I am forgetting things, what do I have to do with memory now, it does not matter.’ How simple it would have been if things had stayed that way. With this disease he struggles to focus on the lost and unknown worlds. Gradually it has created a deathly silence where he hears nothing. Questions and answers all become the same.

Life in him is ebbing away – where his past once bubbled with memories, now it is silence. His memories disappear the instant they are created.

When the brain is not ticking you are always alone, no matter how many people are around you. His phone calls to us have nearly ended; earlier he would call several times a day. His conversations with Mamma have reduced to minimal and it shows that the disease is catching up with him.

When we would ask him, ‘Why is your mood so down?’ he would say, ‘I do not know.’ We just let go, we never realized what it really meant till now. The sheer uselessness, futility of life was burdening him. He would keep on repeating ‘Mann nahin lag raha [I am bored],’ and we would keep on snapping ‘Mann lagana parega [you will have to be busy].’ ‘Yeh aap ki galti hai, TV mein lagao, paper mein lagao, read something [this is your mistake, try watching some TV, or reading the newspaper].’ Oh how naïve were we! He would try to spend as many hours as possible away from the house and Mamma would irritatingly say, ‘Jiska mann apne ghar mein nahin lagta uska bahar kya lagega [if you can’t find something of interest at home, you will not find anything outside].’ It was not inside or outside the house, it was inside his mind, inside the very soul of his. If happiness comes out of this, so does sadness and loneliness. It is just not in your hands.

59

No one would find anything out of ordinary in his demeanour. If he spoke, which he now rarely does, with an outsider it would be in a normal conversational tone, ‘Hello, how are you? Is everything fine?’ That is all and then he would sit quietly. I am amazed at his ability to act even in the midst of his mental chaos.

I try my best, whenever he comes to my place and when we call friends, that he should be part of that gathering but now he is there and yet not there. I do not even know whether he understands the conversation and my heart sinks as I realize that a few years back he would have actively participated – in any discussion – the lively conversationalist that he was. But now he is so quiet, he just keeps staring at the faces of the people around him.

He begs us to take leave and stay with him, he whispers that something very bad has happened to him and it needs to be sorted out. He is looking for his shoes, purse, glasses, asking about his children who are not present and when would they come to visit him. All he is doing is asking, asking and asking more.

60

Patient with dementia becomes unhygienic. Same thing happened with Dadoo. A couple of years back he had started hating changing clothes, cutting nails, washing hands and this irritated Mamma to no end.

‘I learnt many bad things about myself,’ Mamma told me one day, ‘It never occurred to me that there will be times when I would not love him. All this gandagi [filth] makes me so angry with him that sometimes I hate him for it. I am besides myself with anger when he blows his nose and throws the snot on the floor, wipes his hands on his pyjamas after eating food, picks salad and cut fruit with his dirty hands.’

Giving him clean clothes had become a mission. Sometimes Mamma would hide soiled clothes, sometimes she would dip them in water on some excuse or the other, sometimes she would fight with him and there would be loud arguments whether or not the clothes were dirty.

61

27 January 2012

On many occasions I feel that I too am suffering from this disease. I know it is not true but yes you do get involved and you find yourself straining unnecessarily on trivial things. Small errands become big tasks as you run hither and thither to find his spectacles, cell phone, shoes and diary. On not being able to find them, you go mad with tension that probably you too are forgetting. You also turn into a smooth liar and many a time lies become truths.

‘Congratulations,’ Dadoo says, I nod happily busy reading the newspaper. He asks, ‘It is a good thing that has happened.’

I nod. He asks, ‘Today is a party?’

I nod again.

He asks, ‘What happened? Why is there a party?’

Earlier I used to be frantic but now I coolly say, ‘Deepak has been promoted.’ He is elated, ‘What is Deepak now?’

I mumble, ‘President of Deutsche Bank.’

‘Is it an important post?’

I nod, ‘Of course, he heads the bank.’

He is excited, ‘You mean in the world?’

I merrily say, ‘Yes, Dadoo, your son is the most important person in the bank.’

And then he goes on, ‘Congratulations. Is there a party today?’ But now I change gears probably I am bored or I too have forgotten what I said the last time.

‘Rohit has been promoted.’

He is elated, ‘What is he now?’

‘He is an IAS officer.’

‘Oh this is a great news,’ he says beaming, ‘What is he posted?’

I say, ‘Deputy Commissioner.’ (Sometimes I say secretary, sometimes commissioner.)

And then he starts to congratulate me.

This is how you become a smooth liar. A person listening to the conversation will think it is the truth and nothing but the truth. Now I am calm and composed.

‘I must be having five hundred pieces of land.’

I nod.

‘There is one in Shimla too.’

I nod.

‘Where is it?’

‘Tara Devi.’

‘Is there a house there?’

I shake my head, ‘Only land.’

‘Who is taking care of it?’

I say, ‘Lalit and Gopal.’

‘Are they close to you?’

I nod.

‘They are your friends?’

I nod.

‘Who is taking care of it?’

‘Lalit and Gopal. They have built their houses nearby.’

He is relieved, ‘Thank God then it will be safe.’

After a couple of seconds he repeats, ‘Who is taking care of the land?’

‘Lalit and Gopal.’

‘Who are they?’

And this goes on for hours, I try to be patient but once in a while I snap, ‘Dadoo, can you change the topic?’ Not realizing that I have said this so severely that he has forgotten what the topic is and somewhere in his mind the brain cells start shouting, tension, tension and more tension.

‘Is there something wrong?’ he quivers.

‘No, Dadoo.’

‘There is something very wrong.’

‘No, Dadoo.’

‘I know there is something wrong,’ he mumbles helplessly. And I curse myself for leading him in this state.

62

My relationship with Dadoo is indeed a very unique one – a daughter, a friend, a partner. I have fought with him, discussed family matters, politics, life partners, philosophy and death, even his suicidal tendencies.

No one can be a better parent (a father) than him. I do not remember one incident where I had rebelled or done something that he didn’t want me to do. Even when he did not want me to do something it was discussed openly and a way out was found. Not once did he say ‘You cannot’ or ‘You should not’, whether it was my marriage; my career; travelling with friends; a thing I wanted to buy; or my food habits. I was never taught to discriminate between castes, status, wealth – there were just three things: humanity, right and wrong and do what you want to do, which probably meant being happy.

He was not interested in what other professor’s sons and daughters were doing. He never compared us to them, he never nagged us. His motto was not to run after careers – an engineer, a doctor, a bureaucrat – it was always how to live life and do what you wanted to do. In the early 1990s I wanted to be a journalist and when I told this to Dadoo he was on top of the world. Vikram wanted to be a chef and Dadoo supported him wholeheartedly. Deepu wanted to be an engineer; and Dadoo encouraged him just as much.

I remember, I was fifteen when I first got to know about ‘caste’. Having studied in Nigeria, the Indian caste system was not part of our syllabus and neither was it ever discussed at home. During the ragging session in the college I was asked, ‘Do you belong to a lower caste?’ I just had no idea what caste was and I smiled and said, ‘May be’ thinking that it must be a good thing to belong to. I can still recall the dazed expression on that senior’s face. He repeated many times: ‘Are you sure?’ Exasperated, in the end, I truthfully said, ‘I do not know.’ He told me to go and ask my father.

And thus I asked Dadoo: ‘Are we of lower caste?’

Dadoo laughed gaily and robustly, ‘Who told you so?’

‘Some guy in the college.’ I murmured, confused thinking probably it is something funny. We both were sitting on the stairs, he asked me the details. I repeated the conversation, he laughed more gaily and then said, ‘Meri beti, hum schedule caste nahin hai [my child, we are not schedule caste]. Tell him that. And also tell him that hamari koi caste nahin hai [we do not have any caste].’

The next day the same senior asked me gleefully: ‘What did your father say?’ I told him. Dazed he exclaimed, ‘Are you Christians?’

I was a little agitated, this I was sure of, I was not: Though it did not make much difference to me – Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs. I had read the Bible and the Quran. It was something like reading maths, English, science, something like staying in India, Nigeria, London.

In Nigeria we had to choose between Christianity or Islam as subject. Dadoo was casual about it and said, ‘It is your choice.’ And I did. For two months I attended Christianity classes and for the next two Quran classes and kept hopping from one to the other though I chose Islam for exam.

Now I shook my head vigorously and said that I am a Hindu, he again said, ‘Go and ask your father which caste you belong to.’ I adamantly said, ‘He has said that I have no caste.’

‘Every Hindu is of a caste,’ the senior said. This bewildered me.

Again in the evening I narrated this discussion, this time Mamma was also around and as Dadoo laughed, Mamma irritatingly said, ‘There is nothing funny about this. Tell her hum Khatri hain [we are Khatris].’

Oh how funny I found this word ‘Khatri’. I had laughed clutching my stomach, falling from the diwan, it was such a weird word. And to the further irritation of Mamma, Dadoo joined me too. It was only later when we had calmed down from this hilarious outburst that he told me that Hindus were of four main castes and we fell on the third number. I was not very happy about this, the next day I sheepishly told the senior, ‘Main Khatri hoon [I am a Khatri].’

I have heard that upbringing of a child is done more by the mother than the father but for us, it was the other way round. I remember so many small titbit advises, understandings that were given to me by my father as compared to my mother: building confidence, giving exposure, opening the mind, unknowingly and unconsciously being taught what is family, what is right, what is wrong, the fear of law, the stark honesty in your deeds, the compassion, the humanity, enjoying the present, travel as a teacher, socialization, open discussions without inhibitions, making your viewpoint known, watching films, reading newspapers and books. The list is endless. So many such small things which make a big picture in your life were all given by him. It is not that my mother did nothing but yes she was always overshadowed by his larger than life personality, by his careless freedom, by his faith in us.

63

Dadoo is unable to take care of his body. It makes me go mad at the injustice of it all. A year back the confusion had started when bathing became a cumbersome process for him, he could not do it on his own. In the beginning Mamma used to keep the towel and his clothes and fill the bucket with water and guide him to the bathroom but slowly, this independence too deteriorated. Now you have to take him to the washroom, take off his clothes, massage the soap on his body, pour water, pat him dry and make him wear his clothes.

During this process it arouses, sorrow and pity for him and a loathing and contempt for myself. I cringe and shrink when I see his naked, frail body. He is a bony figure with dark patches of blood clots and raw wounds caused by his constant itching. Dementia has not only destroyed him mentally but also made him so weak and vulnerable physically. The doctors tell me that oils in the body dry due to this illness and the patient suffers from a constant itch. He will never be at peace.

You have to be calm, you have to be patient, you have to tell this to yourself every time that it is not his control. But it is not easy, you do get irritated, angry and impatient. And later when you have shouted and said something rude you nurse the guilt for a long time and you realize how little you do for your parents. Your selfishness blatantly stares at you though you tell yourself, he can’t help it but neither can you.

I remember, once he had called me up and he wanted to enquire about his files. In the beginning I calmly told him that there was nothing to worry but slowly, I started getting irritated. I had so many other things on my mind. Sir, my teacher, was not well, my father-in-law was not in a good mood, Rohit had to go to Delhi, someone had scared me by discussing about cancer, an illness that I have overcome and forgotten, and then here was Dadoo relentlessly talking about his files. When he called the fourth time I did not pick up the phone. Then he called on the landline, I knew it was his phone but I did not pick up that either. Next he called on Rohit’s phone, Rohit was in the washroom, I was getting angrier. I picked up the phone and before he could say anything I snapped, ‘Dadoo, why don’t you listen, I have told you that there is nothing wrong with your files. I have other work to do. You are free but I am not.’

There was a silence on the other side, then in a pitiable voice he said, ‘Can you not help me?’

I snapped, ‘I have told you that there is nothing wrong with your files,’ and quickly disconnected the phone.

By now I was crying and furious at myself when the phone rang again and this time Rohit picked it up. He patiently told him not to worry and that he will come in the evening and set his files right. I hated myself that day, whenever I was in trouble or needed help Dadoo was always there but now when he needs it I can’t reciprocate with same patience. What kind of daughter I am and what a weak and impatient person. I grieve for him sometimes as if he has died, I have lost him forever but on the other hand I still see his breathing body. Oh, where has my Dadoo disappeared?

64

17 February 2012

Today is Dadoo and Mamma’s fifty-second anniversary. We, brothers and sisters, have gathered again in Solan. I share with them that I am about to complete the first draft of my book. They are excited and want to know more about it. But I have my own agenda. I ask them, ‘I want us to be truthful. We have a lot of love for Dadoo but I want us to talk about the negative emotions too. Can we talk about it openly?’

‘It is not easy, but I think we can speak about our disillusionment and our fears at least,’ says Mala didi.

‘Yeah, there is always a different perspective to look at things,’ I say trying to provoke them.

Vikram speaks, ‘When Daddy went to Nigeria, initially I was left in India. I was thrown into a hostel at the age of seven by Daddy. When he went to leave me at the hostel I wept a lot, I pleaded with him not to leave me like that. I did not want to be in the hostel. I think I will never forgive Daddy for that. I am not saying that he did something bad, but I always felt abandoned.’

‘Daddy always says that he was thrown out of the house at the age of four and he has nursed that grudge throughout his life against our grandfather but he never thought like that when it came to me. It is true that I have always been unhappy with Dadoo for this and I have felt jealous of both Deepak and Rewa who lived with Mamma and Daddy.’

‘I did not know that I was left here because I was in second class and there were different schooling systems in the two countries. All I felt was that Daddy had left me in India deliberately and that was the most difficult time for me. Finally I too went to Nigeria after a couple of years, but the time that I spent here in India was the toughest period of my life and I don’t think that I will be able to forgive him for this,’ he adds.

‘Daddy always thought that I was not as intelligent as Deepak. This gave me a complex. I even started to feel that I was a worthless person and least intelligent amongst us all. Though Daddy never said that to me or to anyone of us but I had the feeling that I was unable to match the expectation of my father. I was under tremendous pressure to prove myself all the time.’

Now Mala didi speaks, ‘I too have a grudge against him. I think my life would have been totally different had he taken me with him to Nigeria initially. I was very young, lonely and vulnerable. I got involved with Shekhar when I knew nothing about life and married him in the absence of my parents without their consent and this made Daddy so angry that he broke all relations with me.’

‘Many times I think that my life would have been much better had I not been left here in India. I also feel miserable and angry at the same time when I remember that I was blamed for what happened. For years all our relatives behaved as if I had committed a crime. I was scorned for marrying like that, for choosing a man who was not a good human being and hardly educated. Instead of realizing that it was not my fault and sympathizing with me, Daddy too made me feel guilty. Even he failed to see that circumstances were such, Shekhar was so persistent and I was so naïve.’ Mala didi adds sobbing.

We are quiet, not knowing what to say. She composes herself and speaks again, this time with bitterness, ‘I feel that I was penalized twice. Firstly, I was cut off from the family for so many years. Secondly, my life was destroyed as the man I married proved to be a very wrong choice. No one understood what I went through For years I had no one to talk to, no one to share my problems with.’

‘I have nothing to say,’ Deepak says and then adds looking towards me, ‘Didi, you have asked a wrong question. I think more important question is where we have failed him and not where he failed us.’

I ponder over what Deepak has said, he is right. I feel so much love and affection for Dadoo but I cannot be with him to take care of him full time. I have my own life. Each one of us has a job to do, a family to take care of. But this is never the case with parents when they look after their children. Dadoo and Mamma gave their best time to us, without caring for anything else. But now when they need us we are busy giving everything to our children. We have forgotten our parents. And our children will forget us too. Is this the way the world has always moved. Parents love their children who love their children and so on and on. Is this the curse of civilization that the aged will be left alone? Or is it the only way for life to move forward.

Mamma joins us after making Dadoo go to sleep. I ask her, ‘Tell us about Dadoo’s relation with his students and friends?’

‘Your Dadoo is a different person,’ Mamma says.

‘Oh, how so?’ I am curious.

‘He is a giver and he gives too much importance to the wishes of other persons over immediate family members,’ she murmurs. I ask her to explain.

‘Right after our marriage when we were living as tenants in a house here in Solan, the daughter of the landlord came to learn maths from him. She came home every evening after college. He taught anyone who wanted to learn free of cost. So this girl used to come daily. One day she came without a pen. Your father took out the gold-plated pen that my father had given to him, and gave it to the girl. This was a gold-plated pen, a Parker.’

‘Oh! Didn’t you complain?’ I ask astonished.

‘Didn’t she return it?’ Deepak ask quickly.

‘Yes after a week, when I pestered her,’ Mamma says.

I am intrigued, it was a pen from Burma, a precious gift that his wife treasured. He did not think about the value of that pen for his wife, for the family or even otherwise.

‘Whenever he saw that someone was in need and he could help, he came forward and helped. He lent money to people who never returned it, he gifted things without thinking that these would be required by his wife or children,’ she added.

‘There was a colleague of his in the college, his wife became a good friend of mine. We invited them for dinner, she saw the beautiful sandalwood fans on the walls and said, “How beautiful these are! Where did you get these from?” I told her that those were a marriage present from my father. Actually the fans were our family inheritance, coming down the generations,’ Mamma paused.

I felt a sickly lump in my throat as I understood Mamma’s pain.

‘The next day the fans were gone. Your Dadoo took those to the college and gave to his colleague saying that they were for his wife since she liked them.’

‘Dadoo did not think even twice that they were family inheritance and were invaluable,’ I say bewildered. This was a different Dadoo I am getting to know or did he behave differently with Mamma. Was he trying to show to his wife that he was the master of the house and that he did not care about valuable things that she had been gifted by her father? Was he making a point about him being in control? Was there some kind of complex at work?

Mamma continues, ‘He had a student who was bright but very poor. He worked at a shop before and after college hours to earn some money to pay for his education. So, usually he was late for the morning mathematics class every other day. Your Dadoo asked him why he was late and why could he not start in time. The student said that he did not have a watch and he always started from work place after guessing the time by looking at the sun. Next day your Dadoo gave his own wrist watch to the student.’

‘Why was he doing all this?’ I ask angrily.

‘To create a family around him. He longed for human connection, he wanted people to be around, people who loved him, so he loved more and more people, gifted things to them, called them home, helped them,’ she says.

Mamma then tells us about another of his students who used to come home to study. ‘Once she was late due to heavy rain. Your father took my folding umbrella, which was rare at that time even in India, and gave that to the girl.’

I am stumped; there is definitely something else at work.

‘Why your things?’ I ask and then answer, ‘He didn’t have all these things before marriage – a folding umbrella, decorative fans, a gold-plated pen or a watch. To him they were not important but as they were there he passed these on, unaware of the hurt it caused you.’

65

25 February 2012

Now as I read books on this terrible disease I realize what those helpless eyes of my father conveyed, how he seems to be running after thoughts day in and day out. Ideas and sentences melt like snowflakes. Some years back he was so normal and so sharp but now his drifting mind is out of control, he can’t remember simple things like his job, his age and even me.

Just yesterday he was asking Mamma, ‘Where will we stay in Shimla?’

Mamma said, ‘At Rohit’s place.’

‘Will we find Rewa there?’ he asked innocently.

Mamma said, ‘Of course, she will be there.’

‘How is Rewa related to Rohit?’ he asked gravely.

I can understand now that there is all chaos and dizziness in his mind. It is an immense challenge all day to chase words and thoughts. He is at the edge of both failure and hope and these contrasting emotions make him stressed to a breaking point.

For decades I have seen him grow plants, herbs, vegetables and this hobby of his gave him an opportunity to have a close look at life and death, it provided him with an insight into the life and death of human beings too. Today he said, ‘Plants even while living or dying don’t make a noise they just disappear from this world but humans create too much chaos, they scream and they rant both when they are born and when they die.’

Then he murmured, ‘I wish I were a plant.’

We watch in despair as his present, past and future, all get jumbled up and memories of long ago – of his childhood, of his village, of his unknown friends, of some prank that he played in the school – come out from the depths of his mind.

A couple of days back Dadoo was in one of his lucid states when I had called him on the phone.

‘How are you, Dadoo?’

‘I am not fine, everything is wrong.’

‘Yes, yes, I know it is your memory.’

‘No, it is not only my memory, everything is going wrong, I am seriously unwell. You must show me to a doctor.’

‘Definitely, Dadoo.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Don’t make it too late,’ he says scaring me, ‘if there is an alternative, if I can get one or two year of sanity, why not take the opportunity.’ He begs.

‘Yes, Dadoo, tomorrow.’

‘Why not today? Can’t you send someone to pick me up?’

‘Okay, Daddo, I will talk to Rohit, but what do you feel is wrong?’ I asked.

‘Everything.There is nothing inside me, I go to a room and I don’t know where I am. I try to find the bathroom but I go to the drawing room. I want to say something but I forget the very next moment what I want to say.’

‘Oh!’

‘My body and mind both are no help to me. Sometimes many hours later my mind flashes a message but my body is too dull to respond. I go to the kitchen when I am thirsty but then I forget that I am thirsty, I come back.’

In a sadistic way I am delighted he remembers, he remembers so many things and I say, ‘Dadoo, you remember so many things.’

‘What?’ he mumbles.

‘All the things that you told me.’

‘What have I told you?’ he says confused, ‘Help me, take me to a doctor.’ I placate him and put the phone down, confused just like him whether I should be happy or sad.

When I was a child I often used to think that I don’t want to go through life – get up in the morning, go to school, eat lunch, meet your soulmate and produce children. I would fantasize that if I closed my eyes for some time and open them again, decades would have passed. I had done what I was supposed to do during this time and I am living a normal life where there is no change, where there is no struggle, a life where I have to take no decisions as if in that blink of a moment everything had happened. Now too, I just want to close my eyes and when I open them I want everything in place: Either my father has forgotten every single detail or he is no more carrying this burden of a useless life. However in reality this will not happen and like him we will all have to go through it. Buddha says life is suffering. So be it!

66

In the beginning we thought that if we solved the problems such as sorting out his papers; dealing with the correspondence with the Reader’s Digest; or updating the bank passbooks, the situation will improve. We failed to understand that the more we tried to take care of him in this way, the more depressed he became.

We forced him to go to parks, meetings of age care and social gatherings like weddings. He always came back angry and depressed. He just saw faces there, unable to relate and recognize anyone. Whenever he was greeted by someone, he tried to smile but his pain and suffering increased as he did not relate with the person at all. Slowly we let go.

I realized that when people get to know that someone is having problems with memory, they either back off or make fun of him; they rarely come forward to help. I think even they cannot be blamed; they have their own problems and stressful lives to deal with. I feel my heart wrench when I see him silent and alone. All his life he had been a boisterous, happy-go-lucky man, always surrounded by people but now he has withdrawn into a shell.

Sometimes, I try to understand when did all this start. When did he notice that his memory was failing him and did this make him uncomfortable or filled him with the fear of the unknown? What did he feel when he was losing the ability to remember names of his friends, fruits and vegetables? When he was forgetting his bank passbooks, forgetting to make payments after buying things in the market? How did he see all this, did it occur to him that his mind had started not to respond? And how did he hide this from us?

Frankly all of us in the family never took it seriously whenever he said, ‘I am having trouble remembering things, basic things that I have known all my life.’

Sometimes I feel lucky that he got this disease at such a later stage. Dementia can strike a person as early as thirty, though in rare cases, and a fraction also gets it before the age of sixty. Unlike an accident, a brain haemorrhage or a heart attack dementia does not hit us instantly, it is a long and lengthy process. We mostly keep it hidden, to avoid social embarrassment but it does not help.

In the past the disease of the mind was considered to be a result of black magic but now we know that this is a disease which erodes the brain. It strikes quietly, slowly and continuously. As the memory is damaged a black void fills you. In the beginning there are some specks of colour, then specks of grey and then nothingness. Past may visit once in a while before disappearing altogether but there is no future. The brain at one stage stops giving commands, and the hands of others take charge. By the end you are a different entity and your family members also forget bit by bit what and who you really were.

EPILOGUE

3 March 2012

It was just another morning. Everything seemed normal. We were all sitting in the living room. Dadoo was sipping tea. Vikram and Mala didi were reading the newspaper hoping that Dadoo too would become interested and pick it up. I was engrossed in reading a memoir I had picked up a couple of weeks ago. Mamma was trying, unsuccessfully, to engage Dadoo in a conversation. Later she left to attend a kirtan in the neighbourhood.

The four of us – Dadoo, Vikram, Mala didi and I – were sitting in the lawn when Mamma returned after two hours.

Dadoo looked at Mamma blankly and then politely asked, ‘Whom do you want to meet?’

Mamma stared at Dadoo unable to comprehend what he was saying. Before she could respond he repeated, ‘Do you want to meet someone here?’

We were stunned into silence, and looked towards Dadoo. He was still looking at Mamma. Expressionless. Not even confused.

‘What are you saying? I am Asha,’ she said with pain and started whimpering.

‘Asha?’ he muttered as if trying to remember something. Trying to connect. But his face was wooden.

‘I am Asha, your wife!’ Mamma was crying by now.

‘Daddy, don’t you remember Mamma? It’s Mamma,’ said Mala didi.

But Dadoo was blank. He then got up from his chair, looked at Mamma again and then at us. He slowly went inside the house, lay down on the bed and covered his head with a bedsheet …

‘What is he saying? I am Asha … fifty-two years of marriage …’ Both Vikram and Mala didi got up and ran to console her. She looked at them wildly and wailed slipping down, ‘Oh God, what has it come to now. I had never, ever expected this. It is all over!’

Vikram ran to the kitchen and brought water for her. Mala didi held her close and tried to comfort her but she too couldn’t stop herself from crying, she too was broken and helpless.

Suddenly Dadoo shouted, ‘What is all this, where am I, what is happening, whose house is this?’

Mamma got up and ran into the room wailing and shook him saying, ‘I am Asha, Asha, your Asha.’

He looked at her wildly, there was a deadly silence and then he asked, ‘Asha? Who Asha? You know me?’

One more year has passed.

He looks at his face in the mirror and says, ‘Namaste-ji, bahut dinon ke baad mile [namaste-ji, we are meeting after many days]. Is everything fine at home? What about my father and mother? How are they doing? They must be thinking what a callous son I am, I haven’t gone to visit them for many years.

To Mamma he says, ‘My wife lives in a foreign country. Please call her. I am missing her.’ And when Mamma retorts, ‘I am your wife’, he exclaims in surprise, ‘What has happened to your face, you look so old! No, you can’t be. My wife is very young and beautiful.’

A framed photo of his along with his four children and wife opposite the bed on the wall is of unknown people, which brings fear and dread in his heart because he believes that everything – the house, food, money – belongs to these people and they will turn him out of the house anytime.

When he saw a car on the road, he innocently asked, ‘What does it eat? Plants? Must be eating a lot. That is why it is running so fast.’

He is hospitalized now and then. He forgets how to urinate, he has no control on his bowel movements.

Even now there are rare moments when he connects and there is a flash of light in his eyes and he says with conviction, ‘Mauj karo [enjoy yourself]!’

What he has and is not aware of is that he is surrounded by his family who loves him, pampers him, cleans him, laughs with him and shares his world of hallucinations, day-dreams and head trips. Here yesterdays, todays and tomorrows have all merged weaving fantasies of a new world. They have accepted what he has become and are at peace with it.

He lives in his own world – a world within.