The Absent Family

By Chaitra Ramalingegowda

“Hello, Maa! How are you feeling today? How’s the pain in your knee?” I asked with a smile, as I pulled up a chair on the side of the bed. Maa’s face seemed to slowly light up at the question, reflecting the sunshine yellow walls and the bright afternoon sunlight streaming in through the sheer drapes on the windows.

“Gayathri! You’ve come after so long!” she said with an infectious grin, reclined at an angle on her bed, so she could stay up for a bit every day.

Squeezing her hand, I asked her, “What did you have for lunch?”

Her forehead scrunched up in concentration, as she said, “Umm… I don’t… I can’t… remember.”

Taking in her lined yet still beautiful face and the big red bindi on her forehead, I changed the subject. “Doesn’t matter…I’ve a surprise for you,” I said and held up the battered and severely dog-eared book so she could see the faded front cover.

Her face cleared like the sky after a summer thunderstorm, and she smiled at me. “Oh! That’s my favorite novel! How did you know?” she said happily, taking the book from my hand and running her fingertips over the faded front cover.

Smiling at her child-like enthusiasm, I said, “You did, Maa. Last week when we were talking about books.” But she didn’t seem to hear me.

Her gaze still focused on the book, she said, “Your father bought me this book, you know. I still remember that day like it happened yesterday. It was a few weeks after our wedding. He’d taken me out for a movie, which his mother didn’t like at all. She thought it was blasphemous to take the nayi bahu out in public, right after the wedding, that too without someone to accompany us. What would the neighbors think?, was her worry. On our way back, he took me to the second-hand bookstore he used to frequent so he could buy this copy for me. He told me to hide it in my pallu!” she grinned up at me like a teenager in love.

Of course, I knew what happened after as well, having heard the story many times. Firstly, Maa’s mom-in-law was disapproving of a bahu who was educated, and secondly, for her son to buy her books?

From what Maa had told me several times, her husband knew how to manage his mother. Maa went further back down memory lane and got nostalgic about him reading the book aloud to her in the evenings, when they were alone in their room. I’ve often thought that the book, though an average novel by all counts, held more significance to Maa because of these wonderful memories than anything else.

The rest of the evening passed as I read aloud from the book, while she had her dinner in bed. When it came time for me to leave, she wasn’t too happy about it. She repeatedly asked me when I would be back. Reassuring her that I would visit soon, I received her customary three kisses – one on my forehead and one on each cheek, before I waved her bye.

II

“That’s cheating!” I exclaimed as Appa moved to take down my queen from the chessboard.

Chuckling and shaking his head in amusement, he merely said, “No, my dear, it isn’t,” and proceeded to pat my cheek as only a father can.

Still trying to figure out how he had done it, I studied the board before I made my next move. Appa seemed like he was having fun as he sat back on the easy chair and steepled his long fingers in front of his face. I had a sneaky feeling he was trying to hide a smirk, but I couldn’t be sure. He was the best chess player I’d had the opportunity to play against, and he knew how agitated I became when he blindsided me with his moves. I asked him, “Who taught you to play, Appa?”

He seemed not to have heard my question, he was so silent. But then he said, “A friend taught me when I was about 8 or 9 maybe. She lived near our old manor house in the village. She was an amazing chess player,” and fell silent.

I sensed an elaborate story behind it, but he wasn’t one to be pressed into revealing more. So I bit my tongue and studied the chessboard some more. I made a move that essentially trapped his bishop and rook into a corner, and I grinned up at him triumphantly. But his gaze seemed glazed over, as if he was lost in a distant memory.

My patience paid off when he said, “She was a lively little girl, who loved to climb trees and play all day. You could always trust her to have something to munch on – nallikai, gerhannu, mavinkai, seebekai, jamun – whatever fruit was in season, she used to have them. She was a big believer in sharing the fruits of her spoils,” chuckling, with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes.

When I thought he would continue, he remained silent. So I prompted him softly. “What happened to her, Appa?”

He startled at my softly-voiced question and rose from his chair with the help of the walking stick that was leaning against his knee. He slowly made his way into his room. Puzzled about what he was doing, I quietly followed him. Leaning against the sturdy oak study table, he was rifling through some old papers and books in a small metal trunk, clearly looking for something. When he found it, he sat down on the chair and held out a sepia-toned picture of a group of children at a town fair. There were nine kids in all, five boys and four girls, standing awkwardly in front of a colorful Ferris wheel. One girl stood out in the group, with her toothy smile and a twinkle in her eyes, which seemed to leap out of the ancient photo.

Pointing to the girl, Appa said, “That’s her, Gowri. She was all heart, fearless even. She learnt to swim when she was four, climbed her first tree at five, and broke her arm the same year as well. She had big dreams. Gowri wanted to study and become a doctor, you know,” wistfully.

I repeated my question from before. Appa merely sighed and removed his glasses. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, “When she turned twelve, she was married off to a much older man from a neighboring village. In the next one year, she got pregnant, lost her baby to a miscarriage and lost her husband to the plague.”

Oh no! I thought as I traced the vivacious girl’s face. Such a tragedy!

Appa continued with his narration. “But Gowri didn’t let life keep her down. When she returned to her father’s place, she persuaded her parents to send her back to school. Though her father was reluctant at first, her mother convinced him. She grew up to become a doctor, a doctor of philosophy and taught at several universities,” he said with obvious pride.

“Gowri Aunty was this little girl?!” I asked incredulously. Appa merely nodded with an enigmatic smile.

III

“Why are you here?” asked Ajji angrily. I could make out the irate italics in the word ‘you’ by the way her mouth twisted in distaste.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing, Ajji,” I said as I sat down in the chair next to hers. We were sitting on the porch, overlooking the garden that was as lush as could be, with the beautiful flowers in bloom.

“What’s it to you if I live or die? You have your own life to lead. Why do you even care?” She was cross with me, and I couldn’t fault her for it.

“I have too much to do at work, Ajji. You know my boss. She dumps all of her work on me. If I could have, I would have come and visited you sooner,” I pleaded with her to understand. Gently placing my hand on her arm, I tried to make her understand.

Crossing her thin arms across her chest, she refused to even look at me. “You remembered your Ajji now? After all this time? Couldn’t you have written at least? Now that you’re older, you don’t want anything to do with your Ajji, right?” she retorted sarcastically, still avoiding my contrite gaze.

“This is why I don’t bother coming in! I come all the way here and you don’t even look at me! What else do you want me to do, Ajji?” I exclaimed, clearly at the end of my patience with her childish behavior. As I made to get out of my chair, her quiet sob stopped me in my tracks. Putting down my bag, I knelt in front of her chair and took her withered hands in mine. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Ajji. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Wiping the tears rolling down her cheeks, I hugged her to me. She put her arms about me hesitantly, as though afraid I would be cross with her again. Rubbing soothing circles on her back, I tried to calm her down as much as possible. Finally, when she had settled down, I told her silly things that had happened at work to make her chuckle. I also gave her the new saree I’d bought for her, along with the chakkuli she loved so much.

When it came time to say goodbye, her eyes welled up again, but she held strong and smiled through the tears to wave at me.

IV

After battling Bangalore’s ridiculous traffic for an hour and a half, I finally made it home. Having picked up takeout on my way over, I quickly washed up and ate the chicken noodles leaning against the kitchen counter. I was beyond exhausted; I just wanted to sleep. But I had one more thing before that. After putting away the takeout containers and storing the leftovers in the fridge, I made my way into my sparsely furnished bedroom.

The bed was pushed up against one wall, while the study table called the other wall home. The dresser with the vanity was pushed into the corner on the left end of the bed. On the small side table next to my bed were the pictures I cherished. In them were all my family members – Maa, Appa, Ajji and several others in the twilight of their lives. The photos were candid shots that I’d clicked on various occasions – Deepavali, Ugadi, an evening of watching old Rajkumar movies, a trip to the park. Though not everyone was in every frame, they were my most prized possessions, aside from my diary, of course.

Switching on the lamp on my table, I opened the diary I journaled in. I started writing about what had happened this afternoon.

11:44PM Sunday, 12th December 2021

Today was a tough day at the house. Ajji was agitated by the time I reached this afternoon. She was mumbling incoherently, physically lashing out at anyone who went near. She thought she was being held against her will at the house. She couldn’t recognize anyone – neither the other nurses who take care of her and the others full-time nor I. She kept up with her curses and abuses at anyone who was within earshot. Lata, one of the full-time nurses, and I tried to give Ajji her medication, only to come away with a hit to the head for me and a punch to the arm for Lata.

Ajji’s agitation seemed to permeate the hallways and rooms of the house. Appa was visibly restless and Maa insisted on holding my hand as she fell asleep. By the time Lata and I got Ajji into bed and coaxed her into taking her pills, we were both exhausted.

I can’t imagine what Ajji must be going through – losing her memory one bit at a time, every day. Losing who she is, bit by bit. And to one day to wake up and to have forgotten who she is, what kind of life she had led, who her kids are, what her grandkids look like. A couple of months ago, Ajji was lucid enough to recognize me as her friend who came to visit her every weekend. But yesterday, when I was sitting with her on the porch, she truly thought I was her granddaughter whom she’d raised. I played along because I didn’t want to upset her. But since her granddaughter moved to London, I’ve taken up her place.

Appa seems to have forgotten his wife of fifty years and gotten enamored with the memory of his childhood crush, Gowri. Most days, he thinks Gowri is perpetually sleeping in the room adjacent to his. I’ve heard him muttering about not disturbing Gowri – his sweet Gowri – who takes naps after delivering lectures at various universities. My heart breaks for Appa’s wife when she visits. There isn’t even a hint of recognition in his gaze when he looks at the woman who spent more than three-quarters of her life with him, built a large family of 5 kids, 7 grandkids, and 2 great grandkids with him. Every time Appa’s wife visits, it ends the same way – Appa refusing to see his family, his wife carrying large albums that she brings to try and jog his memory, and the irked kid/grandkid looking at their phone for most part of the visit. It’s sad, really.

Maa doesn’t have anyone. The cops found her wandering at a remote railway station one evening, with no memory of who she was or where she was from. She couldn’t even remember her own name. When the police brought her to the house, we decided to call her Lakshmamma, because she looked like a goddess with her red bindi and her timeless beauty.

While Appa adopted me as his protégé to teach me all about chess and the ways of the world, Maa is convinced I’m her daughter. And Ajji thinks I’m her granddaughter. I am who they need me to be for the day. A daughter, a granddaughter, a niece, a friend – anyone they relate to. For someone who doesn’t have a family of her own, I got a family when I started volunteering at the house a few years ago.

I’m no longer an orphan. I have a mother in Maa, a father in Appa, a grandma in Ajji, and a bunch of friends in the nurses who take care of them.

I’m no longer alone.

12:10AM

Closing my journal, I switched off the lamp and went to bed, thanking God for everything in my life.

By Chaitra Ramalingegowda