Tochi and Khari

For August 26, 2019

Dearest Ammi,
It has been fourteen years of silent conversations between you and I. In the beginning it appeared spooky and strange, but then it was comforting to know that you were always watching over. Through both my dreams and nightmares, you have been a part of the journey and I became quite accustomed to the peace that tagged along these chit-chat sessions.

But off lately, my peace has once again abandoned me. The months, the weeks, the days are rolling along without much meaning. The disconnect with people, family, friends and self has turned life into a predictable cycle of night and day, where I keep moving without much thinking. Yet infinite thoughts crowd my mind almost choking my capacity to make sense anymore. In a peculiar way, I am reminded of somehow being incomplete, and inadequate.

I felt like this when you left me. When your name and mention were buried along with you. When I used to stare at those gliding birds high in the sky wondering if your spirit and soul had transformed. When every drop of rain carried an image of yourself. When the Maghrib prayer would strangle my heart. It was at that time, that you magically rescued me. Do you remember the dream in which you handed me a set a books, hugged me in a way that critically meant good-bye, and we both left in tears? Well, the books saved me in so many ways. I did my best to do my best. To be the best, to make you proud.

Today, abba has stopped talking. He has no complaints, and he doesn’t voice any of his needs. If he tries to say something, it comes through as a blend of sounds. I want to understand him. I want him to know that he is understood. That his voice matters and that he can blatantly dismiss my nonsense like always. It won’t hurt me. His garden is empty. The swing he planned to share with you, has faded in the heat. Autumn is close, and I fear the colours just won’t return.

You are the only one he hasn’t forgotten, despite his dementia. “Me and Tochi” is what he utters the moment he is shown your picture with him outside the first Alain park we visited in 1986. Help him out. He has always needed you, but now more than ever. He too did his best, to be the best, to make you proud. I am ready to once again say good-bye, if you could just promise him your silence. And if you are in conversation with him, please let him know that I love him from the core of my heart and that ‘Tochi and Khari’ were always meant to be.

With all my love,
Shama

Nameless

Today I am no more, absent in my reality, anonymous to self and a stranger to my journey.

His eyes searched mine, while his nerves trembled a while. But then a frown appeared and his struggle ended up futile.

I caught his gaze and smiled with the desire to ease his quest. He narrowed his wise brows, yet stared with deep regret.

I tried the clumsy face, the comic one, the one that always made him roar with laughter. He responded with an unfamiliar smile. The oblivious eyes, that once again failed to recognize.

I made conversation to strike a customary note. He nodded a few times, and added a word or two. But then again, the silence came through, and made me all invisible to his being.

I decided to pick familiar names. He said it was just him and everything else was missing. He insisted on traveling in a plane. That he had a ticket. His face turned quizzical at his own revelations.

I became quiet. He appeared exhausted. Terribly lost and confused. Then he gave it one more try. "You are Nuzhat," he said to me. Crushed, I faked a smile. "No Abba, I am Shama." He slowly rubbed his eyes. "Who is Shama?"

Nobody. No one. Nothing. But he didn't hear my screaming heart. "Shama, your daughter."

Dementia hit my father some two weeks back. And despite all the understanding, all the logic and every medical explanation, there lies no ease in the realization that you are now nothing but a nameless face to him. What is a daughter without her father?

The struggle is real. It hits the entire family. You keep smiling to help each other out. You tell him what he needs to hear, you tell him again and again to keep his thoughts connected. You appear calm upon his insistence of calling his wife to talk to her, then realizing she is no more.

From the time that I witnessed my grandma struggle with dementia, it turned out to become my greatest fear. I used to shudder at the thought of becoming a nobody. Nobody to the only two people in the world who know you and proclaim their unconditional love.

So today I am no more, absent in my reality, anonymous to self and a stranger to my own journey. And though I will continue to gently remind him of who I am, the familiarity and comfort of being someone's daughter is lost forever.