M  Y  S  T  I  C  E  T  I

These slight moments of thoughtlessness were brushed aside. At 75, Nani was still sharp as a whip and always ready with long lectures on everything, from ethics to science. The occasional mishap was a sign of age, even for Nani. Pratima Chanda, or Nani, as I called her, had always been my role model. At 25, Nani had completed an MA in philosophy, and enrolled in a Ph.D. program at Bombay University, making her the most educated member of our family. Nani lived through her prime in the changing tides of the 70s. These were the times when women were usually married off in their early teens and barely moved past the boundaries of their home. And while the former was true for her too, Nani believed in her version of new-age feminism and did not let anything or anyone block her path. Marriage, kids, and household responsibilities came second to her career, and everyone loved her for this.

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She worked hard hours and dealt with the bratty antics of her college students with a firm hand. Her ambitions inspired many people and angered even more. A woman asserting herself outside her home. How dare she! Nani didn’t care for any of it. The neighbors shamed her decisions and made sharp innuendos about her late working hours. She simply smiled at them and sent kheer every other weekend. “Kill them with sugar, honey,” she used to say, every time I expressed my frustration.

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So when Nani began to slip from the fabric of reality, the realisation sank in too late. With mirth in our eyes, we watched her look for the watch already fastened on her wrist. “She’s too preoccupied with thoughts of Kant and Descartes to pay any mind to the realm of the ordinary”, we laughed. It’s Nani! She’ll bounce back.

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But slowly, Nani got worse. She’d forget to grade assignments and address students by the wrong names. She’d easily lose her train of thought in the middle of her lecture. She’d ramble on and on about one school of thought, pause for a moment, pat out imaginary creases in her perfectly pleated sari, stare blankly at the wall as if in a trance and then switch to a completely different chapter. At home, she would address all of us with different names and forget that she had even called us over in the first place.

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The day I realised something was truly wrong however, was five months into Nani’s forgetfulness. I had a particularly long day at work, and things only got worse when it began to rain mid-way – about a mile from Nani’s house. I entered her house, drenched to the bone and shivering, and heard Nani clattering utensils in the kitchen. I dropped my ruined bag at the door, slid off my shoes and called out to her for a cup of tea. Nani didn’t respond, but I assumed she’d heard me and headed to my room to change out of my soaked clothes. Usually, Nani welcomed me with a warm meal and millions of questions about my day. When I entered the kitchen, now in a fresh pair of sweatpants and a comfortable sweater, Nani was no longer there.

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The dining table was bare. Desperate for the promised cup of tea, I returned to the wicker chair in quest of Nani. She sat there with a book in her hand, rocking back and forth incessantly. I called out to her twice, to no avail. So, I tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention.

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Nani jumped at least ten meters into the air. It was almost cartoonish. Her eyes grew round at the corners, a sudden fear overtaking them. Promptly, she whacked me on the head with her hardbound leather book. She sprang up from her chair, and ran to the door, surprisingly fast for a 75-year-old. “Thief! Thief! Help me!”, she cried out.

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“It’s only me Nani, your granddaughter. Calm down!”

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“I may be old young lady, but I am no one’s Nani! Get out of my house before I call the neighbourhood to chase you away. Don’t you underestimate me!”

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“Nani! I’m in no mood for jokes. I’ve had a terrible day at work. Give it a break!” I was incredulous.

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Nani grew enraged. She wrapped her sari around her waist, picked up the umbrella near the door and advanced towards me. Confused, I tried to wrestle the makeshift weapon out of her hands, trying my best to be gentle. She was would not budging. It was a battle that only one of us was fighting.

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“Shrikant! Come here! This innocent-looking girl is trying to rob us!”, she cried out to my grandfather, who had been dead for over a decade.

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Nani had somehow been transported to eons ago, before I was even born, before my mother was even married. Nani thought she was only 50 and still lived with her husband, two sons and a young daughter. She had forgotten everything that had occurred in the last twenty-five years.

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With tears in my eyes, I thought it was best to leave the house until my mother arrived on the scene. I waited in the veranda as the rain merged with my already wet face. It hurt seeing Nani this bad. I never thought that she would be the one to lose her grip on sanity. This was Nani, the badass feminist philosopher who remembered everything! I didn’t know what to do. When Mother arrived, she had to forcefully remind Nani of the last twenty-five years. My grandfather’s accident. My mother’s divorce. Nani’s job. She fell into a stupor and cried floods of tears when she remembered it all.

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After this, Nani shut down.

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Nani stopped going to work. In fact, she stopped doing anything at all. The wicker chair had found a permanent occupant. It rocked back and forth, then forth and back all day long, its creak served as a constant reminder of that fateful day. She slept in that old thing, ate her food there, cried there.

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Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

 

Nani shifted from the present to the past, and past to the present.

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Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

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It’s been seven years since then. The house feels empty. The refrigerator stores only the right amount of milk and groceries. No spectacles are found on the shelves. The wicker chair has stopped creaking.