Bamma and I

She walks in expressionless. A shadow of her former self, she seems smaller than in my last visit to her a week ago. Dressed in an oversized nightgown and a bright green cardigan, her thinning hair is neatly tied into a ponytail. This is not how she always dressed. I remember Bamma (my granny) in her heavy set zardozi saris, an elaborate collection of which she proudly treasured in that elusive rosewood wardrobe, always out of my reach as a child. The nurse finds her easier to attend to in the current wear.
When I ask her who I am, she nods absently, not sure it is indeed her oldest grandchild in front of her. I hear a flutter inside of me and I am pretty sure those are the sounds of my heart breaking. Not fair, I think, she at least recognized me between the sibling and I just last week. “This is how dementia is”, granddad tries to comfort me, memory lapses alternate with sudden flashes of memory.
I wonder what she’s thinking, if she remembers any of her former life. Images of the freedom fighter, the orator, the history teacher, the strict mother, the devoted wife, the doting grandmother all whirl around us , Bamma and I ,as we sift through bundles of family pictures I bring to her on every visit . She points at herself in a picture of her speaking at a seminar for women’s rights or some such before quickly moving on to another with such swiftness that I wonder if the details are lost on her.
Her gaze fixes on my mauve footwear, all the pictures are forgotten and she asks to try it on her. While trying to get her feet into them, I am just grateful for any trace of her former craze for trendy footwear returning. I tell her I will get her a new pair the next time .I don’t understand if her grunt means a yes or a whatever. I take her out into the garden for some fresh air. As I seat her on the bench, I offer to sing her favorite songs and she says yes, please do. When I ask her which one, I am met with silence. As a child, her unending requests for me to sing would irritate me. She loved to hear me sing while I‘d much rather go out and play. I start singing her favorite song and my eyes well up with tears with each passing note until I can sing no more. I stop and look into her eyes .For a full 30 seconds, our eyes meet. In a moment of total understanding, she takes my palm and kisses it. We watch the sunset and the birds fly back into their nests. We head back inside, Bamma and I ,and we are all good.