The Day My Mother Forgot My Name

“Mummy, look what I brought for you. Your favourite orange barfi.” She looked at the box in my hand, smiled politely and asked, “Thank you, beta. But who are you?” For a few seconds, I couldn't understand what she had said. I stood there near her bed, holding the sweets she had loved since I was a child. Then she looked at me again and asked my father, “Mahesh ji, who is this girl?” That day, something inside me broke in a way I cannot explain. My name is Ritu Soni, I am 28 years old, and I live in Indore, Madhya Pradesh. Until last year, my biggest worry was managing my household responsibilities and finding enough time for myself. Today, my life revolves around doctor's appointments, medicines, old photographs and the hope that my mother will remember me, even if it is only for a few minutes. My mother, Shalini, was always the kind of woman who remembered everything. She knew exactly how much sugar I liked in my tea, which colour I wanted for my birthday dress and what I used to cry about when I was a little girl. Even after I grew up, she would call me before sleeping just to ask, “Khana kha liya, Ritu?” I used to laugh and tell her, “Mummy, I am not a small child anymore.” Now I would give anything to hear her ask me that question one more time. Around eight months ago, Papa started noticing that Mummy was forgetting small things. Sometimes she would leave the gas on or keep her spectacles in the refrigerator. Initially, we thought it was normal forgetfulness. But slowly, things became different. She started repeating the same questions, forgetting familiar routes and struggling to recognise people she had known for years. We took her to a doctor. After several visits and tests, we were told that she might be experiencing an early form of dementia. The doctor explained that her memory could become worse over time, although the exact progression was difficult to predict. I remember sitting outside the doctor's room while Papa stared at the floor. He is 61 years old, and I had never seen him look so helpless. He held my hand and said, “Beta, your mother has taken care of all of us throughout her life. Now we have to take care of her.” I nodded, but honestly, I was terrified. My younger brother, Aman, works in Bengaluru. He calls regularly and visits whenever he gets leave, but most of the daily responsibilities have fallen on Papa and me. I started visiting my parents almost every day. I helped with Mummy's medicines, prepared her meals and accompanied her to appointments. Some days are peaceful. She sits near the balcony, watches the birds and talks about her childhood in Ujjain. Sometimes she remembers everything for a little while, and we laugh together as if nothing has changed. But then there are days when she looks at me like I am a stranger. Last month, I took her to the small temple near our house. She held my hand while we walked, just as she used to when I was young. On our way back, she suddenly stopped and looked at me. “Can you take me home? My daughter must be waiting for me,” she said. I tried to smile. “Where is your daughter, Mummy?” She replied, “Her name is Ritu. She is a very good girl. She worries too much, but she has a very kind heart.” I couldn't control my tears. She had forgotten that I was her daughter, but somewhere in her memories, I was still there. When we reached home, I went into the bathroom and cried quietly. I didn't want Papa to see me. He was already struggling to stay strong, and I didn't want to add to his worries. Sometimes I feel guilty for getting tired. I feel guilty when I lose my patience after answering the same question for the tenth time. Then Mummy smiles at me, and I feel even worse because I know she isn't doing any of this intentionally. My friends tell me that I should take some time for myself. They say I cannot take care of everyone if I don't take care of myself. I understand what they mean, but leaving Mummy even for a few hours makes me anxious. Yesterday, while cleaning her cupboard, I found an old birthday card she had made for me when I turned ten. Inside, she had written, “My little Ritu, no matter how big you become, you will always be my baby.” I sat on the floor and held that card against my chest for a long time. I keep wondering how a person who remembers every small detail about your life can slowly forget the person you have become. I miss the mother who used to scold me for coming home late, who waited near the window when I travelled alone and who could understand my mood just by looking at my face. She is still here. I can hold her hand, hear her laugh sometimes and sit beside her in the evening. But there are moments when I feel like I am grieving for someone who is still sitting right in front of me. I don't know what the coming months will look like. I don't know how many memories will fade or whether she will remember my name tomorrow. I only know that every morning, when I meet her, I will introduce myself if I have to. I will make her favourite food, comb her hair and sit beside her, even if she doesn't know who I am. Because she was there for me before I even knew how to speak. And even if one day she forgets every single thing about me, I hope she never stops feeling that she is loved. Maybe that is what love means now: staying beside someone, even when they can no longer remember why you matter to them.