“I love you,” said Mr. Chitale, lying on his wooden cot. 

“I know sweetheart, me too,” Mrs. Chitale responded from the kitchen. He got up and went over to the kitchen following the aroma that had spread into every room. 

“What are you cooking Sarita?” he said peering over her shoulder.

“Your favorite honey,” she replied smiling, and quirked an eyebrow, egging him to guess.

“Umm, umm, it starts with an O, doesn’t it?” he replied scratching his head. 

“It is omle…”

“No, no, no, you don’t tell me. I will tell you. I am not a baby, OK?” he said aggressively.

“Ok Ramesh. I am sorry,” she said. She knew it was better to remain silent during such times.

She went back to cooking when she jumped in shock when a pan fell with force on the ground.

“Honey, honey calm down. Relax. Put that down please. It will come to you, don’t worry,” she said with a quiver in her voice, when Mr. Chitale started breaking the China tea set her mom had gifted five years ago.

“Why, why does it happen with me? What is it called?” he bawled, gritting his teeth and pinching his eyebrows in rage.

“It is omle,” she began.

“Shut up. SHUT UP! How many times have I told you not to spoon feed me?” He yelled slapping her across the face. The nerves on her cheek flickered and a red contour of his palm stayed put for a second before it vanished and the original color of her cheek returned. He broke down.

“I am sorry. I am bad. I am, I am sorry,” he said again, when he couldn’t find any more words.

Sarita smiled and wiped his tears with the corner of her saree. “Ramu I know. You don’t have to say anything. And I love you, you hear that? I l-o-v-e-y-o-u. And it is called an Omelet.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. That’s what it is called. Damn. I love you too baby,” he said, slightly caressing her victimized cheek.

“So when are Kshitij and Rohan coming to visit us?” Mr. Chitale asked, while buttering his toast.

“On the 20^th August. Four months from today,” she said, repeating the same reply for the zillionth time since her sons had called her last week from the States. It had been over three years since their children had migrated after getting married. 

“I think I will have to go to the barber again. My hair is grown long. Don’t you think?” he said, staring absentmindedly at his plate.

“No Ramesh, it looks fine. You look handsome,” she said, giving him a kind smile. Just last week she had taken him for a trim.

Two months later - 

Another of Ramesh’s physical outburst had left Sarita twisting and turning in her bed in acute discomfort.

“Where my…where my…?” Mr.Chitale bellowed from the living room with violent impatience. He was flinging all the show pieces kept on the mantleshelf. Each one of them crashed against the wall leaving the room scattered with small shards of glass.

“Coming honey,” said Sarita, struggling to speak. She had been kicked in the gut and on the face. Blood had dried forming small, dark crusts on the corners of her lips, so when she opened them, it hurt. She walked up to the living room clutching her guts,

“Yes Sweethart? Her voice was low and raspish.

“Ok not Sa..sa..?” he asked, partly frustrated on being unable to recollect her name, but also with great concern when he saw her crouching over with her hands over her stomach. 

“Sarita!” She said, helping him out. “No, I am not sick, just a slight irritation. Don’t worry about it. What were you looking for?”

“Sarita! Looking for? No,” he said, walking towards the bathroom. Sarita held on to the couch and eased into it, when she heard a fall in the bathroom. She got up as swiftly as her legs permitted and went to the bathroom, expecting the worst. Mr.Chitale was on the floor, looking completely perplexed. 

“Honey, how many times I have told you to call me when you want to use the bathroom. Why don’t you listen to me?” She said helplessly and tried pulling him up by giving a push under his underarms.

“Bed here. Not here. Why?” he asked, hoping she would solve the riddle for him.

“Sweetheart, the bed is in the bedroom. Come, I will show you,” she said, placing his hand across her shoulder and helping him out of the bathroom.

Two months later –

“Hi papa. How have you been? Look who’s come to see you? Chintu and Biloo and also Shruti,” Kshitij announced grandly.

“Papa you look great. Rita, Babloo and Lucky are here to see you too. We missed you so much Papa,” cried Rohan from behind his elder brother.

Mr. Chitale coiled back and looked at the crowd gathered around him suspiciously.

“Honey, Rohan, Kshitij and their families have specially come from US to see you. Look, your grandsons, they have grown so big since the last time we saw them,” Mrs. Chitale said as calmly as possible.

His eyes were distant and unresponsive. Mr.Chitale stared at them blankly for a while before pouncing on the kids. Rohan and Kshitij had to use force to loosen Mr. Chitale’s grip on the kids’ collars. They had to punch him on his wrists to make him relax his grasp.

“NO! Don’t hit him,” shrieked Mrs. Chitale. “Honey, let them go. I am here. I am here,” she whispered into his ears, squeezing his fists. Mr.Chitale looked at her, smiled and let go of them. The scared kids ran out of the room.

“We should leave. I don’t think this is a right place for our kids. What if that mad person hurts them?” Both Shruti and Rita protested in front of their husbands when they were alone in their rooms.

They left the next day. Mrs. Chitale packed them some special spices to take home. She had just nodded and assured her sons that she didn’t mind their departure one bit. They were concerned for their children’s safety they had said.  

“And oh by the way, he is not mad mind you,” Mrs. Chitale said sharply, addressing all of them just when they were stepping out of the door.             

Two months later-

“Oo? Vaat ooing? Dell. Dell nee. DELL,” Mr. Chitale shrieked from his room.

Mrs. Chitale dropped all the clothes in the washing machine and ran towards the guestroom. He had been sleeping in the guest room lately, as he had become very violent in the last few months. His limbs had begun to move uncontrollably in his sleep, landing with ferocious force all over her body. Once, his ankle had landed so heavily on her crotch, it had caused a piercing pain in her private parts.    

When she finally reached the guest room, Mr. Chitale had picked up a huge vase and was about to ram it in to the mirror. She held it back and coaxed him to replace it. His face was panic-stricken.

“Hum…dody..vooking pat nee,” he mumbled bit by bit amidst heavy breathing.

“No honey, no one is looking at you. It’s you. Look. Look how smart you look in your white kurta pajama. His face lit up when he recognized the familiar figure and he smiled.

She always made a point to check on him in the middle of the night. She would change his wet bed sheet and pajamas, but she had to do it discreetly, because if he woke up, he got violent and didn’t let her change his urine-soaked pajamas.

Mrs. Chitale life revolved only around her husband. She had stopped going to the nearby elephant god temple, which was her only respite from the constant emotional and physical exhaustion. It had become impossible for her to leave her husband alone even for a while. She had stopped attending the cooking classes that Mrs. Sharma held every Sunday in her A block apartment. She had also stopped dressing up. She had stopped cooking for herself, surviving on the leftovers, shunned by Mr. Chitale.

Two months later –

“Honey, today is our wedding anniversary. I’ve made you some fruit custard. Happy 66^th anniversary sweetheart. Now wish me,” she said, kissing his hands.

He wanted to say something, but his mind was vacant. His eyes narrowed trying to form something coherent. He felt the pressure on his brain building up and making it unbearable to breathe. He gritted his teeth and opened his mouth, but only his loose tongue hung out. He managed to say, “Ny iefe, plav.” Drool dripped out of his droopy mouth. She wiped it with her saree and said, “Yes, I am your wife. I love you too,” and rushed to her room. She flung herself on the bed, buried her head into the pillow and wept, for the first time in months. She thought of the last time he had said, ‘Sarita darling, where are you? I am getting late for work. Where is my breakfast? The last time he had said, ‘Honey I am home. I missed you so much today.’

Two months later-

Nurse check his blood-pressure and inject 5mg haloperidol if he gets violent again,” advised senior Neuropathologist Harish Patel at the Apollo Hospital. 

“Mrs. Chitale, I am extremely sorry, but your husband is at the last stage of Alzheimer’s. His muscles have begun to deteriorate. He might not be able to do anything without support, including feeding himself. And this is very hard to say, but there is a possibility, well more or less certain, that he will soon forget everything about you as well. We are trying our best. I hope you understand,” he said, bringing out sympathetic smile to his weathered face. She walked into the hospital room to find Mr. Chitale lying wide awake staring at the ceiling. He smiled at her. Her eyes welled up and she smiled through her tears.

Ten months later -

“Say something goddamit. I haven’t heard you say my name in months now. The silence is killing me. Say I love you to me, say it, SAY IT. Speak you fucking piece of stone, speak. SPEAK,” she yelled, shaking him by his shoulders and slapping across his face incessantly. 

“Nurse, take Mrs. Chitale away. Check for the patient’s pulse rate. I think it is abnormal. Check his BP. Give him haloperidol again. Ward boy, hold on to his hands and legs,” the doctor gave out orders with a sense of urgency.

“Mrs. Chitale I know what you must be going through. It is normal for caregivers to suffer from stress and anxiety. But you have to get a grip on yourself. Are you getting me Mrs. Chitale? You have to be patient. He recognizes only you. Your presence brings a smile to his face. I know I had said that he will eventually forget about you as well, but this is no less than a miracle that somehow you still have a place in his heart. It’s been over 10 months that he’s been here and there hasn’t been a single day when he hasn’t smiled when you’ve walked in to his room. His eyes speak only to you Mrs. Chitale. No one can take your place. In my 15 years in medicine, I have never seen a case of Alzheimer’s like this,” the doctor said, tapping her shoulder.

“No, I don’t get it. I don’t. Alright! I am through. I can’t take it anymore doctor. I just can’t talk to his eyes. I want to hear his voice. I want to feel his touch. I want him to remember my birthday, our anniversary, our children, and our life. He is the only witness to our story, he cannot forget all that. He cannot,” she said and walked into her husband’s room.

He looked at her. There was a look in his eyes, which said, I can’t do without you, you are all I have. She smiled back and sat next to him. She had wanted to leave him ever since the blasted disease had begun to hang on to their lives like a bloody parasite, but every time she would go to see him for one last time, his eyes wouldn’t let her. 

Sometimes I wish I had Alzheimer’s. Sometimes I wish all I remembered was my Ramesh and the times I spent with him and nothing else. No bitterness, no sadness, no sorrows, only Ramesh, just like the way he remembers me.