Naming Maya (9 page)
Authors: Uma Krishnaswami
The next day Mami keeps her promise, and returns. She has no stories to tell me. My mind is first restless, then undecided, then finally made up. True, I have promised Mami I won't tell Mom or Lakshmi Auntie a thing. I have not, however, promised her I won't tell Sumati. So I walk the two street lengths to Sumati's house, and share my dilemma.She considers my story like a judge weighing the evidence. “All right,” she says. “Let's think about this. The question is, is Mami okay, or should she go see a doctor? Right?”
“Right.”
“And if she's sick, her son should take her to see one, right?”
“But she doesn't want us to tell him,” I point out. “Because his wife hates her. And if my mom or yours found out, they would definitely call her son.”
“Okay, fine. But a doctor would know if Mami's sick or not. Right?”
“Right.” Can't argue with that logic, but how can we take Mami to a doctor? First of all, she won't go. Second, even with the money Sumati's aunt has sent her, we certainly don't have enough to pay for a doctor's visit.
We stare at each other. All at once, an idea strikes me. It is so perfect I feel faint from its brilliance. I say in triumph, “I know! Cyberconnexions!”
“The Internet place?” Sumati shakes her head in puzzlement.
“We can run a search,” I tell her, “to look for information on what would make someone act like Mami.”
We make our way to Cyberconnexions, with money we have scrounged up between us in hand. A few minutes later we stand in dismay, staring at the sign. It reads, SURF THE NET. RS. 35/- PER HOUR. We have only thirty rupees.
We are about to turn around and head back in defeat when the door opens and a friendly voice inquires, “May I help you, young ladies?” A white-shirted man with glasses waves us in. He is wearing a shiny brass name tag that says D. MOHANRAJ.
We explain our shortage of funds. “Will you need a whole hour, do you think?” he asks us. “Why not log on and I'll just charge you for the time you spend?” A coffeepot perks briskly on a small corner table. Cups, milk, and sugar are arranged invitingly for customers. A few people drift in and settle down at terminals. Some look like tourists, checking their e-mail, some like students. Modems hum, dialing up. Fingers click on keyboards. Screen-saver patterns zoom in steady rhythm on unused monitor screens. The place has its own heartbeat.
Within minutes, we are seated at one of the dozen computer terminals arranged against the wall. Mr. Mohanraj logs us in with flying fingers, and soon we have six possible search engines at our disposal. Eagerly, we get to work. We key in
memory
and
problems
and wait. In a matter of seconds, we are rewarded with three million plus hits, most of them having to do with memory problems on computers.
memory
and
problems
and wait. In a matter of seconds, we are rewarded with three million plus hits, most of them having to do with memory problems on computers.
“Great! Now what do we do?” My terrific idea seems less brilliant now.
“How is it going? Everything all right with your connection?” Mr. Mohanraj hovers by.
We look at each other. Then in a rush the story of Mami pours out. I tell it, with Sumati adding details. To my ears my voice is high and nervous. I race to my
conclusion. “And so we have to know, are we imagining things or is there something really wrong with her? Can you help us run a search that will tell us more?”
conclusion. “And so we have to know, are we imagining things or is there something really wrong with her? Can you help us run a search that will tell us more?”
Mr. Mohanraj pulls up a chair. “How old is your Mami?” he asks. Sumati thinks eighty. I have no idea. He pulls up a Q-and-A site for us, hosted by a local hospital foundation, where people can find out about major illnesses. He types in a few words.
Memory loss, seniors, symptoms.
Soon we are reading about conditions that commonly afflict the elderly, illnesses with names like dementia and Alzheimer's disease.
Memory loss, seniors, symptoms.
Soon we are reading about conditions that commonly afflict the elderly, illnesses with names like dementia and Alzheimer's disease.
After a while, the text begins to blur into a mass of meaningless words of many syllables. My head whirls with information overload.
Then, “Look!” says Sumati. “âIn Alzheimer's disease a pattern emerges over six months or more. The patient might routinely forget recent events, appointments, names, and faces.' Does that fit?”
“Some,” I say.
She reads on. “âHe or she gets easily confused, suffers mood swings, bursts into tears for no apparent reason, or becomes convinced someone is trying to harm them or others.' Well, what do you think?”
“I don't know. It sounds really bad, and I don't think Mami's that bad, somehow.”
“It says here,” Sumati points out, “that 'there is no
single point in time when you can really tell it started. And after a while' ⦔ She stops, and frowns.
single point in time when you can really tell it started. And after a while' ⦔ She stops, and frowns.
“Yes?” I try to find where she's reading, and I stop too.
“âAfter a while,'” she continues softly, “ârelatives of some patients say there are good days and bad days. On bad days they feel they are living with a stranger. The person they knew is simply not there any longer.'”
We sit there, stricken by the chilling thought, seeing together, because we have read together, the dreadful possibility that aging brings to some people. That Mami might be one of those people whose mind slowly decays. Then the phone rings on Mr. Mohanraj's desk, and we jump. It rings again and he answers it.
“Thirty-five rupees per hour.” A pause. “We are open till nine-thirty.” Another pause. Sumati and I say nothing to each other. “Yes, we have a superfast connection.” Finally, he hangs up.
He walks over to us, leans on the desk. “If I might make a suggestion,” he tells us, “I'd say you should take this lady to see a doctor. You can get some information here from Web sites, but you can't be certain.” He points to a cautionary warning on the screen informing readers that the “information on this page is not intended to replace consultation with a licensed medical professional.”
“Talk to your parents,” he urges, “so you can take your Mami to see a doctor.”
He charges us twenty rupees. I glance at the clock and realize we have been there for more than an hour. “But ⦔ I begin. He waves us away. “It's all right,” he says. “Never mind. Good luck.”
I fess up to Mom that evening. It takes her a while to unravel the threads of my account. “You what?” she says. “You and Sumati went and researched what? Where?”“Dementia,” I say, “except we think maybe it's Alzheimer's. Mom, it sounds really bad.” I tell her about our trip to Cyberconnexions, feeling more and more foolish as the story unfolds.
She gets very quiet as I repeat the contents of the Web site as best as I can remember them. When I am done she says, “You're right. There is something wrong with her, isn't there? I've been wondering that myself for a while, wondering what we should do.”
“We can take her to a doctor, right?”
“Well, we can. But first we have to get in touch with her son and Jana. I'll go talk to her at the bank tomorrow.”
That is when we realize Mami is missing.
We look all over the house for her. She is not upstairs. She is not in the kitchen. She's not in the garden. She's vanished.
“Dear God,” says my mother. “Now what do we do?”
I am struck by an inspiration. “Mom. Mrs. Rama Rao next door. Isn't she Mami's friend? Won't she know how to find her son? Maybe she'll have a phone number.”
“You,” says my mother, “are brilliant.” She goes next door to talk to the Rama Raos. In a few minutes she comes back, all out of breath. “They don't have a phone, but Mrs. Rama Rao had a phone number of a neighbor of theirs. Her son's still not back from work. I talked to Jana. She's on her way. I think they live pretty close to here.”
In twenty minutes, Jana arrives by auto rickshaw. She is understandably and loudly frantic.
“Ayyo,
what will I tell my husband?” she cries.
“Ayyo,
what will I tell my husband?” she cries.
Mom tries to calm her down. “We'll go look for her. Don't worry. She can't have gone far.”
We are spared the trouble. Mrs. Rama Rao scurries over, bursting with news. “You are looking for Kamala
Mami? Lakshmi just phonedâshe is in their house.”
Mami? Lakshmi just phonedâshe is in their house.”
Pretty soon Lakshmi Auntie herself comes over. My head is starting to swim. The pace of this drama is electric. “You'll have to come and get her,” she says. “She's refusing to leave until she talks to Maya. Should I take Maya back with me and you all wait here?”
Mom nods. “Come on, Maya,” says Lakshmi Auntie, all businesslike. “Otherwise Mami's going to settle in for the night on Sumati's bed.”
Jana wrings her hands. “This is terrible. What will four people think?” she says. The Tamil phrase is an odd one. I remember hearing it when I was younger. It was a favorite phrase of Ammamma's. It always puzzled meâwhat four people, and why should I care? Mami certainly wouldn't care what any four people might think.
When we get to Lakshmi Auntie's house, Mami is curled up on Sumati's bed, laughing to herself. Words tumble soft and fast and frenzied from her mouth. She pays us no mind, giggling in time to her own racing thoughts.
“See?” says Lakshmi Auntie helplessly. “I can't get her to listen to me. It's like talking to someone who isn't there.”
Sumati's father, who is probably wishing he'd stayed
in Bangalore, tries to keep Ashwin occupied in his room. Sumati says, “Oh, thank goodness you're here. She's been shouting for you.”
in Bangalore, tries to keep Ashwin occupied in his room. Sumati says, “Oh, thank goodness you're here. She's been shouting for you.”
Mami cocks her head at me, the way some birds do when they're trying to judge if they should put up with humans nearby or fly someplace else.
“Okay,” I say to Mami, “it's all right.” I grab her hand. I sit on the bed next to her, and make her look at me. I hope I can get her attention. I hope she isn't too far off in her own thoughts to be able to listen to me. She mumbles to herself without stopping. I can't understand what she's saying.
“Shh,” I say to her. “Shh.”
She mimics me, finger to lips, smiling crookedly, playing along like a little kid.
“Mami, come,” I tell her. “Come home with me.”
But she is off on a journey of her own. “Home,” she says. “Come home. Such a brave girl. Oh, look how thin you've become!” She looks at me, but she is seeing another face, another time.
Past and present have mingled in her mind. I decide that if I can't pull her from this world, maybe I can try to enter it. I say, “I know. It's terrible. But it's over now.”
“Over?” She hesitates. “They let you go?”
“Mami.” I'm talking slowly and carefully, knowing that the words I choose will either bring her into this
moment of time or send her fleeing away. “It's over. It's all right now. Let's go.”
moment of time or send her fleeing away. “It's over. It's all right now. Let's go.”
She sighs as if there are dead-weight memory rocks in her heart, rocks made of unanswered questions, unresolved problems. The guilt of things said and done, of other words never spoken at all. She wavers between her worlds of inside and outside, then and now. At last she pulls her sari around her and gets up. “What are you people standing around for?” she says. “Go on! Nothing else to do?”
Relief floods the room in waves, washing over all of us. We go downstairs in single file.
We have one last hurdle to cross. Mami will not get in Lakshmi Auntie's car. She has decided Auntie is a spy. “German spy!” she says to her with a glare. “We'll shut down your bakery!”
“What?”
Sumati's dad explains this historical reference. “She's remembering the Second World War, when they closed down the German bakery in St. Thomas Mount because the British thought the owner was a spy. She's very confused.”
“I am not confused,” says Mami with dignity. “You are all traitors and spies!” She lunges at him.
I say, “Shh, Mami,” and grab her hand in mine again. She quiets down, but refuses to ride in the car.
In the end, by flashlight and erratic streetlights, up
and down the uneven sidewalk, dodging homeless families settling in for the night here and there, I lead Mami home. Lakshmi Auntie drives on ahead of us, stopping from time to time to let us catch up with her, keeping an eye on us the whole way. Like burglars on the prowl, we walk in the darkness down St. Mary's Road to my grandfather's house. One old woman with crazy eyes, talking to herself, trotting along behind a girl who keeps a firm hold of her hand. If the late shoppers at the stores along the way think we look peculiar, they don't let on. They just make way for us. Like the people on the overcrowded buses here who make room for more passengers even when you can't imagine there is any more room to be made.
and down the uneven sidewalk, dodging homeless families settling in for the night here and there, I lead Mami home. Lakshmi Auntie drives on ahead of us, stopping from time to time to let us catch up with her, keeping an eye on us the whole way. Like burglars on the prowl, we walk in the darkness down St. Mary's Road to my grandfather's house. One old woman with crazy eyes, talking to herself, trotting along behind a girl who keeps a firm hold of her hand. If the late shoppers at the stores along the way think we look peculiar, they don't let on. They just make way for us. Like the people on the overcrowded buses here who make room for more passengers even when you can't imagine there is any more room to be made.
You'd think it was the most ordinary thing in the world, my leading an old lady down the road, my soul connected to hers with an invisible ribbon woven of stories and fragments of memory.
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