The unforgettables

Though Mummy’s forgetfulness was the stuff that legends are made of, she scored hugely over Jiji in one respect, namely, recognising people. She would remember students who had left her class more than a decade ago and it never failed to thrill them. Jiji, on the other hand, was a dismal failure here, given to looking askance, if not downright suspiciously, at those she’d been back slapping just a day before. Had she chosen to be a part of the intelligence community, no doubt she’d have let out all manner of unmentionables to the wrong ‘un, mistaking the KGB chappie for the CIA fellow. One particular uncle in the colony got a blank look from her every time he came to visit. This repeated refusal of the grey cells to go ding dong made her so embarrassed that she started staring unblinkingly at him whenever he sat in the drawing room. One afternoon, the doorbell rang and she rushed to open the door. I hissed that if the visitor appeared to be a complete stranger from Timbuctoo, she should greet him as Prasad Uncle. She laughingly dismissed my suggestion, stating airily, with a wave of the hand as it were, that now there was no question of making a mistake. She could practically sketch his face like a police artist. With that lofty statement, she peeped out, asked the person to wait and told Papa there was someone at the door. Papa went out and immediately called Prasad Uncle inside. I think Jiji decided against transfixing anyone with her limpid gaze after that debacle.

I don’t suppose it’s catching, but I was afflicted with much the same thing when it came to Mummy’s cousin, Shekhar Mama. Somehow, he managed to look different every time he came to our house, with the result that I gave him an unfocussed look on each such occasion. I confessed this to Jiji and she said in tones of utter shock that surprising though it was, she, too, was never able to recognise him. I let that one pass, but swore to make the grey cells do a jig the next time he came. Anyway, one evening, Papa, Mummy, Jiji and I were seated in the verandah when the gate opened. It was a close contest between Jiji and me; we both sprang up and said in tones of heartfelt warmth ‘Namaste Shekhar Mama’. He seemed rather shaken with the fondness of the greeting. Papa looked up, and said ‘R.P.Singh, aap file le aaye hain?’ It was his steno from the office. Had I but seen ‘Ghajini’ then, the term short-term memory loss would have acquired a different significance, only, I‘d have kicked myself, not the other party.