Where Are My Chocolates? (I)

When Memory Faded, Love Stayed

My childhood was filled with his laughter, his stories, and the quiet strength that surrounded him. My appupa wasn’t just a part of our home. He was the soul of it. He was my best friend. The man I adored more than anyone in this world. After school, I would run back home with little chocolates tucked safely in my uniform's pocket, saved from birthday treats. Sometimes, I would buy an extra one just so he and I could have one each. That was our little ritual. A moment that belonged only to us.

One August, just as Onam was nearing, something happened that quietly broke my heart. I woke up and saw him trying to talk to my ammuma. He was asking her something, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying. He got frustrated. He called my uncle and struggled to speak. No voice came out. And then, he cried. Not like an old man, but like a little boy who suddenly felt lost in his own house. That day, something inside him shifted. He began to walk differently. His toes started touching the floor before his heels, as if even the earth under him didn’t feel familiar anymore. Slowly, he started forgetting things, names, faces, places, routines. He forgot my amma. He forgot ammuma. But he never forgot me.

He had Parkinson’s. A condition that slowly took away his expressions, his voice, and his movement. The man who once stood tall now needed help even to sit. I was in high school when things got worse. At night, he would scream, scared like a child, not knowing where he was. He thought we both were trapped or kidnapped by someone. He trusted me the most, so I would sit beside him, hold his hand, and would calm him down. I used to ask him about his childhood, youth, show him photographs and make him realize it was only amma and ammuma and not any strangers or kidnappers, and slowly he used regain his memory. It used to take hours to calm him down, there were nights we didn't sleep and I had to rush to school. There were times, we had to tie his hands so he wouldn’t hurt her or himself. During day times when amma and ammuma were busy with household chores, he would walk out of the house alone. He didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know where he was going. I’ve heard from amma and ammuma how panicked they felt, how they struggled to find him, to bring him back safely. The neighbours were kind. They’d search for him, bring him back in their car, gently convincing him to get in. He would listen somehow. But in his eyes, there was a fear I still can’t describe. And in our hearts, an ache. A kind of helpless guilt that we couldn’t do more. 

Even now, when I think about those days, the scenes come back clearly. My eyes fill with tears. I used to rush home from school every day because he only took medicines from my hand. Neither amma’s nor ammuma’s, only mine.

But in the middle of all that confusion, he still saw me.

One day, when relatives had gathered at home, I felt like I didn’t belong there, I walked out quietly. I didn’t feel good enough cause out of those brilliant, smart and talented people I was an average girl. I didn’t feel like I stood out in any way. So I stood by the tulsi plant, keeping to myself. That’s when I heard him talking to someone. He said, “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but the most beautiful girl I’ve seen is my eldest granddaughter, prettier and the smartest of all of you” I just stood there, frozen. That was the first time someone had said something like that about me. And it was him. He meant it. I never thought I deserved words like that.

During summer holidays, our home always smelled like ripe mangoes. We had so many trees, each with a different kind. Amma used to make jams and homemade ice creams. That was her way of turning sunshine into something we could hold onto. Appupa, with his love for sweets, would get just a spoonful. It was enough to make his eyes light up. Those little moments felt like treasures. 

But even that didn’t last forever.

One July, after school, I was sent to a friend’s house. He was in the hospital. His condition had worsened. He couldn’t eat anymore. He had to be fed through a tube. He wore adult diapers. After a few weeks, he came back home. I thought I had seen him at his weakest, but I was wrong. One day, I returned from school and sat beside him. I ran my fingers through his hair. That’s when I saw his right ear. It was red. At first, I thought it was blood, but it was worse. Red ants had crawled into his ear. He didn’t even feel it. I screamed. Amma and ammuma rushed in and we cleaned him up. I couldn’t believe it. My brave appupa, the one who once felt like a mountain, now just lay there quietly, like a tree that had been hollowed out from within. He was admitted to the hospital again.

On the 12th of September, 2015, I went to visit him. His body was giving up. But his eyes still searched for mine. And when they met, he softly asked, “Where are my chocolates?” No one else understood what he said, not the nurses, not the other family members. All of them had a tough time hospital figuring what he was saying from the start itself. But I did. I was overwhelmed, he remembered... he still remembered me. Then he looked at me  again and asked, “Won’t the acne scars on your face go?” It was barely a whisper. But I heard it. Even in that pain, he was thinking of me. I bought chocolates from the hospital canteen. I knew he couldn’t eat them anymore. But I kept them next to him. Hoping it would bring him a moment of peace. That was the last time we spoke. The last time I saw his eyes truly light up. The last thread of memory we shared. And it is something I’ll carry with me forever.

*Parkinson’s ’s disease is cruel. It doesn’t just take away your movement. It takes your memory. It takes your dignity. It slowly erases the person you were. But no illness could take away what we had.

He might have forgotten the world.

But he remembered me.

And for as long as I live, I will carry him with me.

This disease is a progressive disorder of the nervous system that mainly affects movement. It usually begins with subtle symptoms like a mild tremor in the hand, stiffness, or slowed movements. Over time, it can lead to difficulty with balance, posture, and even speech. In the early stages, people may show little facial expression or reduced arm movement while walking. As it progresses, everyday tasks become more difficult, and symptoms like fatigue, memory problems, and sleep disturbances may appear.While there’s no cure, medications and therapies can help manage the symptoms. In some cases, doctors may recommend surgery to ease certain effects.