Loss of Memory
One February morning
Grandpa forgets
what I am called.
I remember
his hysterical face,
patterned by the sunlight
which managed to smuggle
itself through the Bohemian-looking
room divider, RISӦR from Ikea
But I digress.
Ah yes, his face
was a maelstrom of
overwrought emotions
as he fails to recognise
his grandchild.
Disorientation
One March afternoon
Grandpa cries in the middle
of the cereal aisle
in our local supermarket,
dazed by the byzantine passages
of vegetables, laxatives
and epilators;
(Wait, they sell epilators here?)
Relinquishing all control
to me, as I guide
him out of the labyrinth
that is the place
he has been to
a thousand times before.
Changing Moods
Grandpa has always been
prone to everchanging caprices,
but that May evening
is different.
He is a veritable volcano of
mixed emotions;
as his paisley cotton shirt,
a souvenir from his
vacation to Kashmir
back in ’78 (when everything was simpler)
glistens with sweat
His fury unbridled,
Sorrow unfettered
Animal unleashed.
Jumbled Speech
By the end of July,
Grandpa is unable to
form coherent sentences.
“No Grandpa, I cannot
drive you to the internet”
He is an incessant magpie,
yet an origami
of unspoken words
of restrained thoughts
Hallucinations
As August rolls in
Grandpa is convinced
of the Technicolor Devil that
follows him to the bathroom
as he pats on his aftershave.
A harlequined mannequin
stares at him as
they talk about
the hideous weather
the stock markets
He listens to Wonderwall
and we pretend that
Grandpa’s sanity isn’t slipping
Grandpa has signs of dementia
– Drishika Nadella