by Nikita Singh
My only consolation is that Dr Sahani gave me permission to take short walks around the hospital in the evenings. There really are no lawns, so I end up walking in the corridors, which are usually busy, what with stretchers and crash carts parked by the walls and medical staff, patients and their family members pacing through hallways. But, whatever. I make sure Priya sees me when I step out of my ward to walk.
‘All set?’ Mum asks, entering my ward.
I look around. The room is practically empty, other than the bed and the odd piece of old but scrupulously clean and sterile furniture. Mum packed everything this morning before I woke up, minus the clothes I had to change into after showering. Which I did. And she packed my toiletries and dirty laundry and whatever as soon as I came out too. So by asking ‘All set?’ I think she means mentally. And mentally, I’ve been all set ever since I woke up eight days ago.
‘Yes,’ I say. I get up and put my cell phone in my pocket. Mum gave me my old cell phone right after my best friends in the world left that day. The phone was password locked, and nobody knew the passcode. But when I had it in my hand, the weirdest thing happened: I automatically started touching and tapping away, unlocking the phone and checking notifications. Once it unlocked, I found out that I know my way around the phone pretty darn well.
I was amazed, until Dr Sahani said it’s not unusual at all, and that we don’t have anything to worry about (I WASN’T WORRYING, I WAS HAPPY, I THOUGHT MY MEMORY WAS COMING BACK) and that the brain operates in fascinating ways.
‘What did you do with the bouquets?’ I ask Mum. They were gone when I woke up and I’ve been wondering where, since then.
‘I’ve put them in the car. It was difficult to fit them all, but we managed.’ She smiles cheerfully. The smile and the cheer are for my benefit. There is nothing cheerful about week-old bouquets of dried and dead flowers, but Mum doesn’t want me to feel low, so she’s being all chirpy.
‘Why bother? Who wants flower carcasses in their house?’
‘Please don’t be like this. I’m sure they wanted to come. Something must have come up,’ Mum tries to pacify me.
‘Like what? School starts on the 15th, and today is only the 10th.’
‘Yes, but maybe they had something else . . . practice or something.’
‘Yeah, right. Tisha must be training to make sure she gets to keep the captain spot on the basketball team,’ I laugh dryly.
‘Well, I don’t know what to say.’
‘There is nothing to say! They met me and they didn’t like me, so they didn’t come back. The flowers and the fruit baskets and the get-well-soon notes stopped coming. They didn’t even call or leave a message or anything. They don’t want me to be their friend anymore. End of story.’
‘All I’m saying is you don’t rush to judge and make assumptions yet,’ Mum says calmly. She has a weird look on her face.
‘What? What is it?’
‘What is what?’
‘That face! Do you know something?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I know is that it’s time for us to go home now. Come on,’ she says. I search her face but come up blank. Maybe it was just my imagination.
We meet Dad at the reception area. He’s just done signing heaps of paper. This is insane. You get sick, and you have to practically write a novel? Look at that thick stack of sheets!
‘All done?’ Mum and I ask together.
Dad looks from Mum to me. ‘Yes, almost. There are these . . . three documents you need to sign too.’ He pushes two clipboards towards me.
I don’t know what my signature looks like, but I guess it’s time to find out. I pick up a pen and place it on the dotted line, where I’m supposed to put my signature. As expected, my hand automatically scrawls my name on the paper. Whoa. This is so cool. I’m like a pre-programmed robot or something (with just one of the memory discs missing, minor glitch).
‘Here,’ I hand back the clipboards to Dad in a very professional manner. Like it was no big deal. I just made three signatures, without even remembering what my signature looks like. Like I do this every day. (I just realized that I could have found out what my name is by myself if nobody had told me! All I needed was a pen and a piece of paper. I wonder what other powers I have.)
‘I’ll get the car from the parking lot. Meet me outside,’ Dad says.
Mum and I start walking towards the exit.
‘Is it weird that I’m nervous?’ I ask.
‘A little. I can understand excitement and anticipation, but what do you have to be nervous about? It’s our home, not a person! You don’t have to worry about making a good impression!’ She laughs.
‘Don’t laugh. Not cool.’
‘Sorry,’ she mutters, but I can see that she’s trying to hold back laughter.
‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, irritated.
She shakes her head.
‘Then why are you laughing? Aren’t you like worried about me or something? What happened to the concerned mother who was sweet and constantly fussed about me being okay?’
‘Ah, I was worried in the beginning; you were this lost child who needed me. Now you’re getting back in your element. No reason for concern anymore.’ She shrugs nonchalantly.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘That means you are irritated, you’re angry at somebody— your friends in this case—you’re having a silent battle with that young nurse and, you know, you’re moody, in general. So you’re turning back into you, more or less.’
‘You mean the mean-me? The me before the accident?’ I ask. Oh my God, from what I’ve heard, I’m not sure I like the me-before-the-accident.
She does a mixture of a shrug and a nod.
‘What is with you today?’ I’m exasperated now. I know that she is only joking and she means all this in good humour, but I’m not in the mood. Which just supports her claim that I’m becoming irritated and moody again, like the old-me.
‘There’s your Dad,’ she points towards the car and we walk to it without another word.
We live on the sixth floor of a fifteen-storied apartment building and, as I enter the elevator, I feel more excited than I have felt in days. I’m going to see my home for the first time Post-Accident.
The lift stops with a ‘ding’ and I step out. Mum and Dad are right behind me. I look around, wondering which of the seven doors is the right one.
‘Let me guess!’ I hold my hand up to pause my parents. ‘The . . . this one, right? 605?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, so this one then. 603. This is it!’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Mum says and makes no effort to hold back laughter.
‘You are so mean!’ I say heatedly.
‘What else am I supposed to do? Enter 603 and pretend it’s ours to not hurt your feelings?’
‘You don’t have to laugh, at least!’
‘Fine, then. Have five more guesses! I’m sure you’ll get it right this time,’ Mum laughs again.
‘NOT funny!’ I exclaim. ‘Dad, do you know what is wrong with Mum today? Why is she being so weird and . . . chirpy and laugh-y today?’
‘I am but a man. And no man has ever uncovered the mystery that is woman,’ Dad replies, all sombre.
‘God, no,’ I groan. ‘Not you too. One childish adult as a parent is enough. I don’t need another.’
‘Okay, okay! I think your mother is excited about you coming home, and is showing it in unusual and goofy ways.’
‘Yeah, but tell her that it’s really pissing me off.’
‘I think she can hear you,’ Mum says making a fake-sincere expression.
I grind my teeth and decide it’s best not to engage her. I’ll talk to her when she becomes normal again. ‘Let’s just go home,’ I mutter.
Dad nods (smiling a little too, much to my frustration) and walks to 604. That was going to be my next guess! Okay, the one after the next, but whatever. Maybe recognizing doors isn’t one of my superpowers.
Dad unlocks the door and pushes it open. He bends down to pick up the bags he’d been carrying and I walk into my . . . home. I expect to feel something, some kind of a sixth sense (or memory, hopefully) which would tell me this really is my home or that I have been living here all my life (or whenever we shifted here, since the apartment doesn’t really look seventeen years old), but . . . nothing. I don’t recognize it. None of my lost memory comes back (surprise, surprise). The smell doesn’t seem familiar and I can’t see much; it’s dark with the windows closed and the curtains drawn, the only light in the room is streaming through the open front door.
I step in and look around in the darkness for the switchboard when . . . ‘WELCOME HOME!’ No, it’s not my Mum and Dad; it’s, like, the whole world. Somebody flips on all the lights and the room brightens with a fluorescent glow, with intermittent red, blue and green—somebody seems to have installed . . . disco lights?
I turn around to my parents, ‘What . . . ?’
Mum says, ‘Surprise!’ with the goofy grin back in place.
Oh. It all makes sense now. Mum was being weird because she was in on/or planned this surprise for me and my friends were being all absentee because they wanted me to feel all neglected and insecure, so that I would feel all the more loved and adored when I walked into this secret party they had been planning for me. Or that’s what I think this is about.
Mum hugs me from behind and lets me go in time for me to see all kinds of faces walking towards me. I recognize Ada, Bharat, Sameer and Tisha, but who are these other thousands (more like fifty, really) people? I recognize not one of them. Not one.
Suddenly, I’m being hugged and held by all kinds of people. Everybody is saying something (nice, maybe) to me, but all I hear is an irritating buzz. I feel disgusted by these unknown bodies rubbing against me. I now know how it feels to be held tightly by a tall man with a huge tummy, a short skinny girl who is all bones, a fair middle-aged woman who smells of garlic, a woman so fat she can barely get her hands round me, about twenty people my age who seem just as awkward and uncomfortable as I feel, and all I want to do is run.
This is all so clearly orchestrated and just so lame. Why would I feel like being touched by fifty strangers of various sizes and shapes, who are treating me like . . . it’s some kind of a cricket match, after which everybody makes a queue and shakes hands and pats each other’s backs like they are best friends. Like I am Sachin Tendulkar and they are the Pakistan cricket team plus crew (and some more—there are just too many people).
The analogy makes me stop to think. If I know who Sachin Tendulkar is and what the Pakistan cricket team is and how cricket matches end, why the hell don’t I know who this bunch of smiling and hugging strangers are? This amnesia thing is really twisted.
People are saying things like so glad to see you, thank God, you’re okay and aren’t you such a fighter! And I. Just. Want. To. Run.
Angry tears fill my eyes, as I push away a dark-complexioned woman with round-framed specs who is trying to embrace me.
‘Arey, beta kya hua?’ she asks. ‘I’m your aunty, don’t you recognize me?’
‘No, I DON’T. I don’t, okay?’
There is a stunned silence.
The woman speaks again, ‘But—’
‘But what? There was an accident and I got hurt in the head and lost all my memory. Didn’t you hear?’ I shout, now completely out of control. ‘So I don’t know who you are. And I don’t know who all these other people are. So just, please.’
I turn away from the living room and wonder which direction to go to. I’m so mad I just want to run to my room and shut myself in it and never come out, but to do that I need to figure out which of the three doors from the living room lead to my room. If only my superpower could work for a second right now.
As I walk by, everybody makes way for me, as if I’m some kind of a wild animal on the loose. Oh, hell, even if I end up entering a bathroom, I don’t care. At least I’ll be alone there.
Just when I’m about to enter the door in the middle, my dad grabs my elbow and swiftly guides me to the door to the right. He shuts the door behind us and turns to me. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t look at him. Outside, there is a low murmur; maybe everyone is discussing my outburst and thinks I’m crazy. Whatever. If they wanted me to not go crazy, they could’ve been sensitive enough to not form a team and assault me physically.
I can’t see anything; this room is even darker than the living room was. I stumble and hit my big toe on something and let out an ‘oww!’ after which Dad flips on the lights, and I look around the room. There is a queen-size bed covered with a black bedspread, and five pillows with matching black cases piled by the headboard. There is a hairy grey rug under my feet, covering every inch of the floor, and the ceiling above my head is painted pitch black. All the curtains (black, obviously) are drawn, so there isn’t even a speck of light coming from outside.
The walls are the only things here that aren’t black. They’re all white, surrounding the black ceiling. My knees feel weak and I slump back onto a black velvet pouffe and shake my head in wonder. ‘What is this place?’ Well, obviously, I know this is my room, but it looks like I’ve stepped into a different world. One with aliens or zombies or something.
‘You like to call it your den,’ Dad tells me.
‘What? Why?’
He just shrugs.
There are five lights on in the room, one at each corner of the ceiling and one hanging over my study table, but it’s still dark in the room. All of them are whitish light not yellow, but they’re all muted and decorative. Not one of them is throwing light enough to brighten up my dark room.
I just sit on the pouffe and stare at a black and white poster with the distorted faces of six men with the words LINKIN PARK written across it in a large, bold font, and A THOUSAND SUNS below in a smaller font. Above it, there is another poster which is also black and white and has silhouettes of the same six men standing against the sun and the words MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT written in capitals, under which are the words LINKIN PARK, in the biggest, boldest font possible. To its right, there’s a third poster, which is all black and has nothing on it except the words LINKIN PARK written right in the middle in white.
I must be a big fan of this LINKIN PARK thing.
Also, I’m getting really tired of all the black.
I get up and pull the curtains open. Dad helps me open the windows, which were slightly jammed. I obviously don’t open them often. When I move the rightmost curtain, I find that there is a door behind it.
‘Where does that lead to?’
‘A tiny balcony that has never been used.’
‘Let me guess—I don’t like to leave my den much?’
Dad laughs. ‘Yes, and opening the door brings light to the room, which kills the feel of your den.’
‘Hmm, interesting,’ I smile. After the initial shock the den gave me, I’m actually in a much better mood now that we are alone. I push the door open.
The balcony is very dusty and there are cobwebs on the ceiling. But I step outside anyway. Dad follows me. We stand side by side, with our arms resting on the dirty railing and I breathe in the fresh air. It’s around five in the evening, and despite the heat coming from a setting sun, it feels good.
We are at the back of our building and are facing the back of the building right behind ours. The balcony of the apartment across from ours is just about six feet away from me, though it’s covered in some kind of green canvas, so I presume nobody uses it. To our right and left are even more apartments. It’s like a concrete jungle of balconies over here!
‘Now I get why I don’t come here often,’ I giggle.
‘Not much of a view, eh?’
We laugh. There’s a sound behind us and we turn to see Mum entering my, er, den.
‘Is everything okay?’ she asks.
Dad looks at me and I nod.
‘Could you . . . ?’ It’s almost like she’s scared to even ask.
Given my outburst outside, one can’t really blame her.
I nod again. ‘Yes, I’ll come out and meet everyone. Just give me another minute to myself, please?’
‘Okay,’ she says and signals something to Dad.
Dad whispers ‘take your time’ in my ears and leaves with Mum, probably to attend guests and apologize to them on my behalf.
I sigh. I know I should go out. I know everybody did all this to make me happy and they’re all waiting outside to meet me, but I can’t make myself go. What if they start hugging me again?
If I stayed here long enough, would they all leave? I wonder. And then feel guilty for being so self-centred. But I can’t help the feeling. I do want them all to leave. But I don’t want to hurt their feelings either. I’m feeling two things at once and I’m confused and feel my head’s going to burst.
If my head bursts, I wouldn’t have to go out and be social, would I?
‘What are you thinking?’ a voice asks from somewhere and startles me. I look around frantically, trying to locate the source, when the voice chuckles and says, ‘Right in front of you.’
And then I see the giant green canvas in the balcony facing mine lift up to allow a tall, skinny boy to come out, and then fall back into place.
Six
His jeans ride really, extremely, dangerously low on his nonexistent hips, supported by a thick belt. His white t-shirt has some kind of message printed on it in a foreign script and looks completely washed out and old, in a very stylish way. (Though, what the hell do I know about fashion, since I have lost seventeen years of memories? But it does look fashionable enough to me.)
His long, dark hair is all over the place. It forms wild waves and almost covers his eyes. As if on cue, he shakes his head in an expert motion that flips his hair away from his eyes and I can see his face properly. I wish I knew how to push my bangs away from my face that easily. For now, I just use multiple clips to stick them to my scalp so that they don’t fall into my eyes and I can see.