Uththan

Trigger Warning / Disclaimer

This story explores themes of grief, loss, and the effects of Alzheimer’s. It includes emotionally heavy moments related to memory loss and strained familial relationships. 

Reader discretion is advised. If you find such themes triggering, please proceed with caution.

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The city had always been loud. The honking of rickshaws, the murmur of street vendors, the rhythmic clang of construction work—sounds that had once been a comforting backdrop to Aisha’s life now felt suffocating. The air carried a mix of spices, petrol, and the unmistakable scent of rain on hot pavement. For years, she had adapted to its rhythm, allowing its chaos to become her own. But lately, it had begun to unravel her.

The walls of her apartment, once her refuge, felt stifling. The deadlines, the meetings, the constant juggling—it had always been demanding, but she had managed. Even when her mother’s diagnosis came, she had convinced herself she could handle it. But Alzheimer’s wasn’t something she could fix. It was a slow theft, stealing her mother away in pieces. Now, she barely recognized the woman who had once hummed lullabies to her, who had woven jasmine into her hair. And the worst part? Her mother didn’t recognize her either.

She hadn’t realized how much it was breaking her until one evening at work. She had been reviewing a design draft when a colleague, Anika, casually leaned against her desk and asked, “How have you been?”

Aisha opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came. Her mind went blank. She searched for words—any words—but they refused to come. How was she supposed to explain the exhaustion, the helplessness, the aching loneliness of watching her mother slip away? How was she supposed to describe the way each visit to the care facility felt like stepping into a past that no longer belonged to her? So she forced a smile, let out a dry laugh, and said, “Busy, as always.”

Anika had nodded, moving on to another conversation, but the question lingered. Later that night, lying in bed, Aisha couldn’t stop thinking about it. When had she last felt okay? When had she last done something for herself, something that wasn’t about responsibilities or survival? The realization hit her like a wave—she couldn’t remember.

So, without thinking, she booked a ticket.

Two hours later, she was driving out of the city. The neon signs faded, the traffic thinned, and as the highway stretched ahead, the air grew lighter. The scent of earth after rain filled her lungs, mingling with the faint hint of blooming frangipani. She rolled down the window, letting the cool wind tangle in her hair, and for the first time in months, she breathed.

And then, she was here—at the lake.

The property had belonged to her family for generations. A summer retreat when life had been simpler, when her mother would sit by the water, playing the sitar as Aisha sketched patterns in the sand. The laughter of her childhood echoed in the rustling trees, in the way the sunlight danced on the rippling surface. But then came the city, responsibilities, work—and her mother’s illness. She hadn’t returned in over a decade.

Now, standing at the entrance, she hesitated. The old caretaker, Ravi Kaka, had been expecting her. He opened the door with a knowing smile. “Took you long enough, beti.”

She managed a small smile. “You’re still here?”

“Someone had to keep this place from falling apart.” He gestured for her to step inside. “It’s been waiting for you.”

She walked in, the scent of aged wood and damp earth greeting her like an old friend. The house was the same, yet different. Or maybe she was the one who had changed.

He led her inside, his steps slow but steady. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

She nodded, running her fingers along the wooden railing of the staircase. “It doesn’t feel real.”

Ravi Kaka chuckled. “That’s what time does. It makes the past feel like a dream.”

She turned to him. “You still make chai the way you used to?”

His face lit up. “Extra ginger, just how you liked it. Come, sit. Tell me everything.”

Over cups of steaming chai, they talked about the past. About her mother. About the summers when Aisha would chase fireflies while her mother played music under the banyan tree. Ravi Kaka shared stories she had forgotten, moments tucked away in the folds of time. “She was proud of you, you know,” he said. “She used to tell everyone that her daughter was going to paint the world.”

A lump formed in Aisha’s throat. “She doesn’t remember me now.”

“She might not remember names, beti,” Ravi Kaka said gently, “but love isn’t in names.”

Later that evening, she sat by the lake, the water still as glass, reflecting the sky. Her phone buzzed beside her. A call from the care facility.

“Ms. Aisha?” It was Nurse Meera, her mother’s primary nurse. “Your mother had an episode today. She was looking for you, but when we told her you weren’t there, she…” A pause. “She didn’t remember who you were.”

Aisha closed her eyes. She had heard those words before, but they still hit like a punch to the gut. “Is she okay now?”

“Yes, she calmed down. She thinks she’s still in her twenties. Keeps talking about this lake, actually.”

Aisha’s breath hitched. “This lake?”

“Yes. She keeps asking if she’s met ‘the girl’ yet.”

A lump formed in her throat. “I… I’ll visit soon.”

She hung up and stared at the water. Her mother’s memories were fading, but somehow, this place remained. It had been their escape once. Now, it was hers.

The next morning, Aisha took a slow walk through the property, allowing herself to absorb every detail. The scent of damp earth, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the distant hum of the town waking up—it was all achingly familiar, yet touched by time. The town itself had changed. New roads crisscrossed the landscape, modern buildings had sprouted where small shops once stood, but the essence remained. The same narrow alleyways, the same calls of vendors bargaining over fresh produce, the same warmth of a place that had once been home.

At the old market, she found herself lingering by a small clothing stall, fingers absentmindedly tracing the intricate embroidery on a dupatta. That was when she heard a sharp gasp.

“Aisha?!” The voice was incredulous, and before she could react, she was pulled into a tight hug. Priya. Her childhood best friend.

Aisha let out a breathy laugh, overwhelmed by the sudden embrace. “Felt like it.”

Priya pulled back, examining her as if making sure she was real. “You just disappeared! No calls, no messages. Do you have any idea how many times I tried to reach you?”

Guilt flickered in Aisha’s chest. “I know. I should’ve kept in touch. Life just… got in the way.”

Priya crossed her arms, pretending to be stern. “That’s a lousy excuse, but I’ll let it slide—on one condition. Chai. Right now.”

Minutes later, they sat on plastic chairs outside a small stall, sipping steaming cups of masala chai. The years seemed to melt away in the fragrant warmth of the tea.

“So, tell me,” Priya said, resting her chin on her palm. “Still designing?”

Aisha hesitated. “I am… but I haven’t picked up a pencil in months.”

Priya’s brows knitted together. “Why not? You used to sketch everything—patterns, people, that stupid old boat by the lake. You once told me drawing made you feel free.”

Aisha exhaled slowly. “I don’t know if I even remember how anymore.”

Priya reached over, squeezing her hand. “You haven’t forgotten. You just need to start again.”

Aisha looked away, watching the market life unfold around her. The weight of the past few years pressed down on her. “It’s not just that, Priya. My mother… she doesn’t even recognize me anymore. I talk to her, and it’s like talking to a stranger wearing her face. And I don’t know how to handle that.”

Priya’s eyes softened with understanding. “I heard. I wanted to reach out, but I didn’t know what to say. I can’t imagine how hard it must be.”

Aisha swallowed the lump in her throat. “I keep thinking if I just remind her enough, if I talk to her long enough, something will come back. But it doesn’t. And I don’t know how to let go of someone who’s still here.”

Priya sighed. “You don’t have to let go, Aisha. You just have to find a new way to hold on.”

That night, after returning to the lake house, Aisha sat by the window, staring at the rippling water bathed in moonlight. She finally took out her sketchbook. Her fingers trembled as they traced the edges of the cover, an old habit resurfacing. The pencil moved hesitantly at first, awkward and unsure, but then, as if guided by muscle memory, it began sketching. The curves of the water, the ripples, the way the wind played with its surface—it all flowed onto the page. She lost track of time, lost in the quiet rhythm of creation, a small piece of herself finding its way back.

The next day, Ravi Kaka found her still by the lake, sketchbook full, eyes lighter than they had been in years. The morning mist lingered over the water, and the scent of damp earth filled the air. Birds called from the trees, their melodies weaving into the quiet lapping of the lake against the shore.

“You look more like yourself,” he remarked, his voice gentle yet firm, like a father seeing his child after too long.

Aisha looked down at her hands, smudged with pencil dust. “Maybe I am.”

She exhaled deeply, as if releasing a weight she had carried for too long. The memories, the grief, the guilt of leaving—everything had coiled around her like a vine. But now, something inside her was beginning to shift.

Later that afternoon, she sat on the porch, phone in hand, hesitating before dialing. She decided to call her mother, even though she knew the conversation would be one-sided. Still, something inside her ached to hear her voice.

The phone rang a few times before a nurse answered. “Hello? Mrs. Kapoor’s room.”

“Hi, I—I’d like to speak to her. Just for a moment.”

There was a shuffle on the other end before a familiar, fragile voice came through. “Hello?”

Aisha closed her eyes, pressing the phone tighter to her ear. “Hi, Maa.”

There was silence, then a hesitant response. “Who is this?”

A lump formed in Aisha’s throat, but she forced herself to smile, as if her mother could see it. “A friend.”

Her mother sighed. “I had a daughter once. She loved this lake. She would sit by the shore for hours, sketching. She always said she could hear the water talk.”

Aisha gripped the armrest of the chair, tears threatening to spill. “She still does.”

There was a pause, then a quiet hum, as if her mother was lost in thought. “That’s good. I hope she remembers.”

Aisha swallowed past the ache in her chest. “I think she’s starting to.”

After the call, she stayed on the porch, staring out at the lake as the sun dipped lower, casting golden ripples across the water. She thought of all the times she had sat here with her mother, their hands stained with charcoal and ink, their laughter filling the air. She thought of the songs her mother used to hum, the scent of jasmine in her hair, the way she had always believed in Aisha’s dreams.

She had spent so long running, burying herself in work, convincing herself that moving forward meant forgetting. But now, she realized something else.

Healing wasn’t immediate. Grief didn’t vanish overnight. But as she stood at the edge of the water, feeling the cool breeze against her skin, she understood why she had come back.

She hadn’t come here to escape. She had come here to remember.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid to.

As dusk fell, Ravi Kaka walked onto the porch with two cups of chai. He handed one to her, his gaze full of unspoken understanding. “Staying a while longer?”

Aisha wrapped her hands around the warm cup and nodded. “Yes. I think I will.”

He smiled. “Good. This place was never meant to be forgotten.”

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The End