The Persistence of Memory

“There are two things that happen to you as you age. One is that you start losing your memory...and... I forgot the other one”. Email forward.



Salvador Dali seemed to have a handle on memory. He remembers what it was like in the womb - a paradisial period, so vividly clear to him, ‘as though it were yesterday’. (In case you are wondering, he elaborates in detail about his experience in this intra-uterine paradise, which was paradoxically the color of hell, the color of flames, and soft, warm and gluey. There was a bit about floating eggs, but I couldn’t read it as I was busy gagging).

It should come as no surprise that, like most normal or non-Dalian people, I cannot recall these prenatal images, because here I am, someone who cannot even remember what they had for breakfast. Now, I agree that this clichéd thought is apparently shared by anyone over the age of fifty-five – not that this prandial knowledge of is of vital importance to anyone.

Fair enough. But forgetting my son’s name is going to get me a ticket into the Hall of Shame ..and probably short-list me for the Worst Mother in the World award as well.

So here is how it went:

Mise en scène: Luncheon in India given in our honor. Bunch of my friends standing around with drinks in their hands. Son standing by my side. An old friend walks up to us. It seems an introduction is necessary at this point.

Me: Beta, this is Seema Aunty. We went to Elphinstone College together. Seema, this is my son…my son…”

I blink. My brain goes blank. I snap my fingers. I try to focus, to find his name in the flotsam and jetsam of my mental rolodex, which was whirring fast alphabetically.

I wished the earth would swallow me.

My embarrassment at this point was immense, but not as much as the pique my son was displaying on his already reddening face.

“Vivek,” he offered helpfully.

I should have stopped while the going was good. But then I had to add “He is fifteen.”

“SIXTEEN!” yelled my son, now really pissed off.

I looked at him with an ‘Are you sure?’ look.


Later that night, as I crawled into bed, I shamefacedly recounted what had transpired at the lunch. Apart from providing a wonderful sleep, the conjugal bed in our house serves as a confessional booth. It is pretty much a one-sided event, my husband playing the priest, me the sinner. I wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘sinner’, but definitely a blabber-mouth. Latest transgressions are divulged and forgiven with either a smile, a kiss, an admonition and/or a lecture (sometimes with a snore).

As I admitted how I made a fool of myself or what a fool my memory made of me, I added the bit about his age. My husband looked totally stymied.

“Are you sure? I thought he was fourteen.”