Summer of 87

As kids, my brother and I spent our vacations at our ancestral home every summer. Ammama (grandmother) always insisted on picking us up from the railway station so that our ride back home in my Appapan's (grandfather) old Ambassador wouldn't be as bumpy as in a local rickshaw. The summer of 1987 marked my post-high school graduation, a time when our familiar routine took an unexpected turn.

As the train pulled into the station, there was no sign of Ammama. Instead, Appapan, clad in his check shirt and mundu (dhoti), greeted us from a distance. Our parents had hinted at Ammama's illness but withheld the details. My curiosity bubbled, and before I could articulate my questions, Appapan broke the somber silence.

"She's got Alzheimer's," he disclosed. "I don't know if she'll remember you, but don't worry; she's going to be all right."

My Ammama is the most gentle woman I've ever known. She always exuded the scent of sun-dried cotton sarees, neatly folded in an ancient wooden cupboard. Her effortless smile, accentuated by wrinkles, used to illuminate the entire room. Naphthalene balls, not room fresheners, preserved the room's fragrance to her liking.

Navigating the narrow roads flanked by paddy fields in the countryside, the ambassador's radio played old Malayalam melodies... Ente ormayil poothu ninnoru… manja mandhaarame [You bloomed in my memory like a yellow hibiscus] Ennil ninnum parannu poyoru.. jeeva chaithanyame [You flew away from me, my life's purpose.]

The Ammama I once knew seemed lost, and all I hoped for was to witness a glimmer of her former self, even if she couldn't recall me. A disquieting feeling engulfed me, as though I was on my way to encounter a stranger.

I wondered what else would be different this time. Will I find the familiar kitchen aroma of rice cakes wrapped in plantain leaf and the blooming marigolds in her garden? Would I relish the summer rain on the terrace with her overseeing, as before? Anxiety clouded my thoughts, yearning to glimpse her in her old self for one last time.

Upon reaching home, the setting sun cast a shadow of the banyan tree on the front porch. The air felt different—foreign, rusty, and old, unlike the comforting ambiance of previous visits. In the room at the corner of the stairs, an unsettling fear crept in - what if she failed to recognize me? Drawing the curtains aside, I glanced at a figure seated on the bed, motionless, observing us.

When her eyes met mine, a hushed stillness enveloped the room. Her smile, once effortless, seemed to fade, or maybe she never smiled at all.

Appapan encouraged us to go a little closer to her, explaining her impaired vision. As I held her wrinkled arms, the texture akin to sandpaper, words eluded me. Then, it happened—her pupils dilated, her eyebrows swayed like waves, and her face radiated like the moon in a starless sky. She smiled and called my name.

I often find myself yearning to go back in time, not to that day but to an era before Alzheimer's claimed her memories. To assure her that even if she forgot me, my love for her would endure.