Forgetful Legacy

Papaji, as my grandfather is called by one and all, was almost out of the house for his morning walk before I noticed that he was sans his pajamas. Clad in his neatly ironed kurta, he looked at me questioningly for stopping him at the doorstep. His memory, regressing by the day, had obviously deserted him mid-way in the task of dressing.
It is amazing how a person, sharp and intelligent in his or her youth, can become so infirm in old age as to forget the names of his or her kith and kin. Having witnessed the transformation of my grandfather from a dashing man in his middle age to a passive and vulnerable man who does not know good from bad in his twilight years, I get goose pimples just thinking that this could happen to me too.
That Papaji’s physical condition is excellent for an octogenarian is little consolation and does nothing to stop us from popping almonds dipped in honey first thing in the morning as a preventive measure against memory lapses.
Though there is every reason to believe that Papaji’s is an extreme case, the fact that absent-mindedness and poor memory run in the family is not far from anybody’s mind. Moreover, it is difficult to ignore the signs that point to the fact that all of us have inherited this legacy in different degrees. And if the frequency of lapses is anything to go by, I seem to be heir apparent of this genetic trait.
Remembering birthdays is not my strong point. Bulk purchase of ‘belated wishes’ cards, marks every visit to the card shop. Missing deadlines has become a way of life as I have never quite managed to catch up with the times.
Almonds with honey, Shankhpushpi and unpalatable concoctions galore, I have tried it all. I have spent a small fortune on memory improving medicines and preparations, the results of which are yet to show.
Though it has been years since we moved into our current house, I have yet to make friends with the switchboards. Years of usage have not left a mark on my memory and I stand for minutes facing the switchboards like a zombie, trying to figure out which switch is for the fan. I usually punch most of the switches on the board before I hit the jackpot.
I might have been worst hit by this genetic syndrome, but no one in the family can boast of having gone unscathed, with the exception of my mother who has a different blood group. She has to bear the brunt of it all though. My father has this uncanny habit of remembering her birthday and their anniversary till the eve of these occasions only to blank out on D-day. Though my mother’s sulks tip him off, it is not till bouquets and phone calls start coming that realization of his faux pas dawns on him.
My sister is a movie buff of the worst kind. She got so agitated during the climax of a gripping movie that she crumbled the paper napkin in her hand into a ball and proceeded to tear it into bits and pieces to dissipate her tension. It was too late by the time she realized that what she had thought to be a paper napkin was a hundred-rupee note.
Clichéd situations like an absent minded professor searching for his pen tucked behind his ear are not uncommon in our house. They are also painfully embarrassing if witnessed by outsiders. However, there is only one answer to question like why I ask others for time when there is a healthy watch ticking at my wrist. A sheepish grin.
Nothing pleases a forgetful person more than making acquaintance with one of his own kind. There is an instant rapport as they communicate in their own special (fuzzy?) way. Being bad with names doesn’t hurt when they greet each other with a new name every time. Like minorities of all kind they feel secure in sticking together.
Now it is time for me to spend some time with Papaji and listen to the tales of his glorious past for the umpteenth time. I am not clairvoyant but I can bet on the course the conversation will take within minutes of my talking to him. “In 1937, when I was Depot Manager of Tata Iron and Steel Co. in Lahore…..