A grey morning.


She sat cross-legged on her bed, hoping that no one would push open the door to her room, hoping that no one would come and ask her how she was feeling. She was tired. She was tired of people asking the same questions again and again, tired of seeing strangers come and go, their faces lined with nothing but despair and hopelessness. At times, she felt like she had caught a glint of hope in someone’s eyes as they hastily muttered some words, words that didn’t make sense to her anymore. And she saw that glint vanish as they noticed the blank look on her face. She was tired of not being able to remember what hope meant.


She had always been able to convince herself into not giving up. She had always been a strong woman. But now, she was finding not giving up harder than ever before. The day before, she had witnessed a thirty-year-old man, who insisted on calling her Maa, break down into tears while sitting on the edge of her bed. His face had seemed familiar enough, only she couldn’t remember where she had seen him. She had felt something break inside her as she saw the grown up man cry like a little child who has just lost his most precious possession. She wondered if hope was what people felt before they had sat through the pain of feeling their insides snap into two.


No one did come that day. The doors remained closed except for the two times when the maid came in with her meals. The maid never asked her how she was feeling, and she was really glad about that. She didn’t need to look for answers that she would never find, unless she was asked questions. And a closed door saved her all the pain. She slept peacefully that night.


Another grey morning.


She stepped out of the bed, and walked to the dressing table. She stood in front of the mirror, and saw a stranger staring back. Alzheimer’s had finally defeated her.


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