By Saanvi Puri
I remember everything from my thirteenth birthday in exact detail-
my floral white skirt, and red lace top,
red and white balloons, in bunches of fours and fives,
the red-velvet cake from my favourite bakery,
and my grandmother; wan, in her wheelchair.
I remember everything in exact detail-
excitedly walking up to ‘daadi’ to demand my box of chocolates, and ‘shagun ka lifafa’,
and how she didn’t find me special enough for her ‘lifafa’ for the first time ever.
I remember everything in exact detail-
going up to her after being eliminated before the finals of musical chairs,
hoping she would console me, like every other year,
distract me with the promise of homemade mango pickle;
and how she didn’t know me enough to console me, for the first time ever.
I remember everything in exact detail and especially this-
as a final shot, asking her if she remembered who I was,
but she didn’t.
she thought I was her mom, and that we had gathered for her maa’s birthday,
so that evening, we celebrated her maa’s 90th birthday;
and I turned ninety on my thirteenth birthday, all at once;
I sang my prayers and blew my pastel candles,
and amidst the birthday claps, I felt a snap
at the absolute unlearning of my existence in her eyes.
memory is good friends only with the young,
so I do remember everything in exact detail;
how she waved a familiar good bye at me before leaving our place,
and threw a smile at me through her denture and broken teeth,
as though, for a brief second, her dementia had given way-
and allowed her to remember me, everyone and everything, all at once and, in exact detail.
I haven’t turned ninety one, since,
but each time I think of my thirteenth birthday,
I remember everything in exact detail- her, me, and her maa, all sitting across that red-velvet cake,
for the first time ever,
for the last time ever.