The Lost Mind

I stand by the door, staring at Reema Aunty taking care of my Dadi**. Dadi can’t bathe herself anymore, Reema Aunty bathes her. Right now, she is combing Dadi’s hair, her once beautiful long hair is now short and full of white strands. Dadi peeps over and smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Mithu! Come in, why are you standing at the door?”

I swallow hard and step in. She brushes off Reema Aunty’s hand and lifts her pillow. She pulls out a newspaper cutting and dangles it in front of my face.

“I have a new story for you. Come sit next to me.”

She pats the bed.

“What is it about?” I try to peek at the paper, but she pulls it away and holds it behind her back.

“Sit and I will tell you.”

I obey. She takes the paper close to her face and reads word by word. It’s the same story she has been reading to me all this week. A frown mars her forehead as she struggles to read.

“Dadi, I know this story, you told it yesterday. Don’t you remember?”

She looks at me confused.

“I did?”

She turns the paper over and over, and stuffs it back under the pillow with a ‘silly me’. But I know she isn’t silly; she forgets and has been forgetting many things for a while now. I smile at her with hope.

“Dadi let us play Monopoly or a game of cards.”

She nods, still muttering to herself. I run to my room and get the monopoly. I set the board and explained the rules to her. We started playing.

“My turn first.”

She grabs the dice and laughs. She is playful today and I feel nice. She rolls the die makes a move and then buys Indore. Two rounds down, she reaches New Delhi and asks for the card. I offered her the card. She sits there staring at it.

“Dadi you have to pay 500.”

She stares at me and back at the card. She looks at Reema Aunty and begins to weep. “She took all my money. I don’t have any money. Now she will take this also. Let me hide this or she will take this also.” She shoves the card below her pillow. Under her pillow was a treasure trove of things big and small. Her hanky, her bobby pins, a safety pin, the newspaper cutout. The monopoly card is now added to the pile.

I stared at her not sure what to do. So, I packed the game and left her room. It was her nap time anyway. That evening, I sneaked into the room again, I want my Monopoly card. I try to pry it out from under her pillow when she wakes up, her eyes wild and her mouth half open drool dripping down her chin.

“AE! Thief! Thief!”

She grabbed my hand in a firm grip. I wrestled trying to free myself, but she started shouting louder.

“Dadi its me! Mithu!”

She stopped for a moment. “Mithu? Who Mithu?”

“Your granddaughter Mithu,” I whispered tightly as I still struggled.

“Liar! My daughter Amba has gone to school, she will be back soon. Don’t make stories. How can she have a child.”

My mother ran in hearing the ruckus. She tried to pacify my grandmother, but she refused to listen. She pushed my mother and tried to get out of the door. Reema Aunty blocked it, and Dadi ran to the window. She stretched her hands through the grills and yelled, “AYE! Help, save me! These people have locked me up and are asking for my money. Help call the police.”

My mother waited by the bed. Soon Dadi was tired and sat on the edge of the bed. A few moments passed as my mother sat beside her and with tender hands settled her hair away from her face. In a soft voice she said, “Maa come let's have some water, you must be tired.”

Dadi looked at her, her forehead creased with confusion. “Am I tired? Yes, you are right I must be tired.” She turned around to find me cowering behind Reema Aunty. Dadi smiled and raised a hand towards me. I flinched.

“Arrey Amba, when did you come from school?” she said, as my mother laid her on the bed, slowly caressing her head.

My Dadi used to be a strict lady. She was always well dressed and prim and proper. But in the past year, she has changed. My mother says she has Dementia. Sometimes she is fun, carefree, doing silly things with me but sometimes she doesn’t even recognize me. As mother says, this is the time she needs our love and care the most and whatever she says is her illness talking. I wonder how long before we lose her completely.

**Dadi – Indian colloquial term for paternal grandmother