The fine art of forgetfulness

Paying the standard price of an invitation home for dinner, my wife and I allowed ourselves to be docilely led on a house-tour, nodding dutifully when things were pointed out.

“Our daughter’s room,” announced our host Sheila Verghese.

My wife and I stood at the doorway and looked inside. Then we looked at each other.

“Wow!” said my wife. I nodded in dumb disbelief. We were not impressed by the room itself, a small area equipped with a bed, study table and wardrobe; what was remarkable was that it was neat! There were no clothes strewn on the bed or the floor. I looked with wonder at the girl seated at the table, connected to her laptop via two fingers and two ears.

Then I noticed that the table was strewn with books, hairpins, papers, CDs, pens, a nail polish bottle with its cover missing and a few items I couldn’t recognize. I felt reassured.

“Where are your clothes, young lady?” I asked her. “Not the ones you’re wearing,” I added as she looked at herself in panic. “Where do you store your other clothes?”

“There.” She pointed to her wardrobe. “But the door is jammed,” she added quickly, “so I can’t show you the inside.”

My wife and I gave the hitherto unnoticed wardrobe a look of respect. It was a sturdy, huge affair built into the wall, with large doors that could be locked — or “get jammed” — easily whenever guests arrived.

I turned to my wife to suggest we needed a cupboard just like this for our daughter’s room but she was one step ahead of me.

“What a lovely wardrobe, Sheila!” she said.

“Thanks,” said Sheila, pleased, “The carpenter and I had many discussions before finalizing the design.”

“Give me his name and number,” said my wife. “We need a cupboard exactly like this.”

“Unfortunately he’s in China on holiday. Won’t be back for a month.”

“No problem. We can wait one month.”

“Ok, I’ll look for it,” said Sheila.

As I sank into the sofa in the living room, I let out a grunt of satisfaction.

“Great sofa set,” I said. “Elegant and comfortable, a rare combination. Where did you buy it?”

“I’m sure I bought it somewhere,” said Sheila, scratching her head and looking crestfallen, “but I’ve completely forgotten.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said my wife. “Just give us the carpenter’s number.”

Sheila’s look of misery intensified. “I can’t find his invoice with his phone number. I’ll SMS it to you tomorrow.”

“I’m worried about Sheila,” my wife said to me a few days later. “She forgot the shop where she bought the sofa. Then she forgot to send me the carpenter’s number. When I called she told me his number has changed because when she called it, a voice said, ‘Please check the number you have dialled.’”

“The carpenter is in China — his phone must be turned off,” I said.

“Exactly what I told her. Obviously she hadn’t thought of it because she became silent. ‘So give me the number now,’ I said. ‘I’ll call him when he returns.’ She was silent for a few more seconds; then said: ‘I’m not sure where I put that invoice. I’ll call you back.’ And once again she has forgotten.”

“Mm, you’re right to be worried,” I said. “She’s young but who knows? Perhaps dementia can strike at this age too.”

“Poor thing,” said my wife. “I haven’t called her and made her feel more miserable about her memory. But I’m meeting her today at Neelam’s house. I’ll ask about it gently.”

Later that evening I asked my wife what happened.

She shook her head sadly. “Apparently Sheila couldn’t find the invoice after our last conversation. She had found it and called the carpenter on my behalf but after getting the message saying ‘check the number you have dialled’ she says she was so frustrated, she may have crushed the invoice and thrown it into the dustbin. She has searched the whole house but cannot find it.”

“And she can’t remember if she really threw it away?”

My wife shook her head

“Definitely sounds like dementia,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, “and it seems to be contagious too! Neelam had made the most amazing malaai kulfi for our get-together…”

“Malaai kulfi?” I interrupted, with excitement in my voice. It was one of my favourite items.
“That’s very difficult to get right at home.”

“Exactly what I told her! And then I said: ‘Please give me the recipe right now — I want to make it for Paddy.’ She said she did not have any formal recipe: her mother had taught her how to cook this dish and she just kind of did on the fly. ‘That’s great!’ I said, taking out my notebook and pen from my handbag. ‘Just describe how you make it on the fly and I’ll write it down.’ And you know what? She couldn’t remember much. She rattled off a list of ingredients but it was obviously incomplete. ‘You’ve left out sugar,’ I pointed out to her. She turned red and said, ‘So sorry! Yes, you do need sugar.’ But she couldn’t tell me how much, nor could she recollect the correct quantities of the other ingredients, or the right sequence in which I should cook them.”

“To forget something she had cooked only this morning is terrible,” I said. “Listen: I know Sheila and Neelam are your good friends but you should spend less time with them. If this forgetfulness is as infectious a disease as it sounds, I don’t want you to catch it.”

“Who are Sheila and Neelam?” my wife asked, looking confused. Then she grinned. “Don’t worry, I was only kidding,” she said. “I’ve not yet caught it.”

The author is a freelance writer based in Singapore.