Delve Into the Forgotten

Delve Into the Forgotten

I entered the room allocated for me. As I would be spending the rest of my life here, I decided to look around.

A beautiful painting decorated the wall. It had two old ladies picking up flowers from the garden. The sensory regions of my brain became excited and started to unfold the past.

I was four years old then. I woke from an afternoon nap and walked into the living room. Seeing too many people around, I ran and hugged my grandmother. There was a sudden rise in their laughter. It was then, I noticed my grandmother rushing to my rescue as I was in the hands of her elder sister, who resembled her more.

On the table was an antique candle stand with three candles of different sizes.

I was overwhelmed to be part of the ‘Candlelight’ ceremony when I entered high school. Draped in white saree, holding lighted candles, we take the oath for peace and sing hymns, finally leaving them to float in the pond. It was my first encounter with a saree. My grandfather did not want me to wear a white one for sentimental reasons. He bought me a traditional silk saree and clicked a photo which still stays framed in our house.

A small shelf with books occupied the corner space.

“I knew your passion from your father, so I have arranged a small library on the first floor for you.”

I was delighted when my husband said those words on our wedding day.

I came near the window and noticed the ice cream truck crowded with children.

“We need ice cream.” My two little naughty bubbles sang in a chorus. 

“Mummy will make hot ice cream,” my reply made them excited.

They enjoyed eating two bowls each, and it became an instant hit. I thanked my mother for giving me this idea. Till now, they never use the word ‘custard’.

Near to the bed was the sewing kit.

When my elder son gave me his newborn in my arms, I realized the joy that I had, holding him years ago, had multiplied now. Many sleepless nights had passed in knitting woolen socks and sweaters for my grandchildren.

Knock! Knock!

I opened the door to see a pretty woman.

“Hello, Mam. I am Sameera, your caretaker. The Doctor will be visiting soon.” She said in a sweet voice.

I sat on the chair. My memories stayed fresh and reminded me of the incident that happened three months ago.

“I think Mom should stay with you,” the elder bubble started.

“No! After Dad passed away, Mom has spent more time here. You take her with you,” the younger one argued.

After I became a burden to them, it was evident that the following incidents would only stay as bitter remembrance, which I felt, should never be stored within me. I faked my memory, and here I am in this old-age-home that accommodates patients with Alzheimer’s disease, treasuring my precious moments till death.
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