Vitamin-M
“I wish,” said Ravi’s mother, hurriedly putting
some green, red and orange tablets on a saucer,
“that somebody would invent a memory —
Vitamin-M, they could call it, and we could
give it to old people to help them improve
their memories.”
“Shh … Grandpa’ll
hear
you,”
said
pointing to the frail old figure sitting in the
rocking chair, holding the newspaper inches from
his nose to read it.
“Don’t
worry,
doubt
whether Grandpa can hear
me. He doesn’t hear too
well, or see too well, or even
remember too well these days.
I’m glad that your holidays
have
started
from
today.
Now
you
can
look
after
him. Last month was…” she
stopped and shuddered at
the memory.
It was only last month that
Ravi’s Grandpa had come to
live with them because he was getting too old to
live on his own. It had been a difÏcult month with
Grandpa having to be admitted to the hospital
because he absent-mindedly took a double dose
of his medicines, and then gave them several
anxious moments when he got lost on one occasion
he went for a walk and forgot the way back home.
Grandpa had got very upset when his daughter,
Ravi’s mother, insisted that he shouldn’t go out
alone again. “I’ll have you know, Vidya, my dear,”
he had told his daughter with a trace of the
firmness that had been a natural part of his job as
a lawyer, “that I’ve been looking after myself for
the better part of my seventy-five years. After your
mother died ten years ago, I took over her duties
as well and have been cooking, shopping and
keeping house too. First you force me to come
and live with you in this poky little flat, in this
horrible, crowded city and then you think you
have the right to forbid me to go out on my own!”
Grandpa hated the noise and bustle of
city life and when they were on their own, he
often spoke, longingly, of his small brick house
in town. “Such a wonderful place…! With that
big mango tree in the garden! It is so quiet that
at dusk you can even hear a leaf fall!” But then
Grandpa had slipped and fallen in the garden
late one evening while he was pottering around
and lain outside all night because there was no
one at home to help him up. That was a month
ago and it made Ravi’s mother lock up the tiny
brick house and bring Grandpa to live with them.
“Whatever happens, Ravi, you’re not to let
Grandpa go out on his own. It’s too dangerous,” she
instructed, adding details of medicines to be given
to Grandpa after lunch. Turning to her father she
said, “I’m off to work, Papa, Ravi will be here to look
after you. His holidays have begun from today.”
Ravi winced at the over-loud tone his mother
used when speaking to Grandpa, as though she
were speaking to a child who couldn’t hear or
understand too well. Grandpa continued to rock
gently and gave no sign that he had heard her
at all.
winced:
showed an
expression
of embarra-
ssment
“Don’t worry, Mamma,” Ravi promised, looking
at his mother’s anxious face. He felt sorry for
her. “You go to work. Grandpa’ll be fine at home
with me.”
“Shall we play chess or watch the cricket match
on TV, Grandpa?” Ravi asked after his mother left.
Grandpa played a great game of chess, very cool
and cunning, and Ravi found that his own game had
improved greatly ever since Grandpa had come to
live with them. “That’s the opening move Karpov
made when he played against the computer,” he
would tell Ravi as he moved a piece, or, “You’re
making the same mistake that Bobby Fischer made
in his historic match against Spassky.”
“How can he remember all those thousands of
chess games and still forget the names of people he
meets often!” Ravi wondered.
“You set out the chessboard,” said Grandpa,
putting his paper down, “I’ll just walk across to
the corner shop to see if the Tamil newspaper
has arrived.”
“Papa usually buys you the Tamil paper on his
way home! But if you want it immediately, I’ll go
now and buy it for you,” Ravi offered.
“I hope you’re not going to be as tiresome as
your mother, Ravi. Treating me like a baby! Has
she told you not to let me go out on my own? Told
you to keep me a prisoner here, has she?” Grandpa
looked suspicious at this thought.
Ravi felt guilty for a moment, then quickly
recovered to say loyally, “Of course not, Grandpa.
Mamma would never treat you like a baby … or
a prisoner.”
“Good,” said Grandpa craftily, “then you’ll have
no objection to my going out.”
He picked up his beautiful
shiny-black
mahogany
walking stick with a brass
handle carved in the shape
of an eagle’s head, put on
his bright-yellow cap and
declared, “I’ll be back home
before you can set up the
board, Ravi.”
Off
he
went,
twirling
his walking stick jauntily,
leaving Ravi in a dilemma.
His grandfather would feel hurt if he insisted
on accompanying him and his mother would be
furious if she knew Ravi had let him go out on
his own.
He heard the elevator door shut as Grandpa
went down. Ravi decided he would follow Grandpa
secretly, at a safe distance, to make sure he came to
no harm.
jauntily:
happily and
confidently
I Cannot Remember My Mother
I cannot remember my mother
only sometimes in the midst of my play
a tune seems to hover over my playthings,
the tune of some song that she used to
hum while rocking my cradle.
I cannot remember my mother
but when in the early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers floats in the air
the scent of the morning service in the temple
comes to me as the scent of my mother.
I cannot remember my mother
only when from my bedroom window I send
my eyes into the blue of the distant sky,
I feel that the stillness of
my mother’s gaze on my face
has spread all over the sky.
Rabindranath Tagore