I feared my memory was fading

6 min read.

Quite a few years ago I had a court hearing in the city centre. When I reached there my client was already waiting for me. We had brief consultation in the conference room. Our case was listed at number one. At 9.50 am the court clerk informed me that we could go in. During the preliminary hearing, the Judge flicked through the papers in front of him. He pointed out that he would like to peruse a document which he could not find in his case file. Neither was it with me or with the opposite lawyer. He opined that to reach a just decision, he would like to have a copy of the document. I submitted that the hearing might be stood down to retrieve it from the instructing solicitors electronically. He agreed and advised me to let the clerk know when I would be ready.

We left the court and returned to the same conference room.

I had been appearing in courts on behalf of the instructing solicitors for many years. It was a family firm. Excepting the receptionist and a few more, the rest of the staff had the same surname i.e. Malik. I knew all of them including the one who was in-charge of the appeal I was then conducting. He was a competent and complaisant person. He would gauge the importance of the phone call and do his best to comply with the Judge’s directions.

I rang up, and the receptionist, recognising my voice, answered:

“How’re you doctor?”

“I’m fine. How are you, your children, and the husband?”, I said.

“We’re all fine. What can I do for you this morning?”, she asked.

I added:

“Please connect me to……”

I could not complete the sentence, because I had forgotten the name of the relevant case worker.

The receptionist waited and enquired:

“Which case worker do you like to speak to?”

In return I could only utter:

“Mr Malik”.

She tutted:

“Doctor you know there’re so many Maliks here. I’ll be obliged if you let me know which one you like to talk to.”

I was somewhat nonplussed. How could I convey to her the name when I did not remember it?

A few more moments passed, and I was at the verge of throwing in the towel.

I pause here to state briefly the context of my reply to the receptionist.

In the sub-continent, the word shair means lion. In some regions it is spoken as sair or saroo, which was the name of the little boy from a poor family in India who was separated from his older brother. The true story has been told in Lion, a Hollywood film starring Dev Patel, Sunny Pawar and Nicole Kidman.

Coming back to the instant story, finally the penny dropped, and I blurted out the name of the case worker:

“Lion Malik.”

She said:

“You mean Shair Malik.”

“Yes, yes. Heaving a sigh of relief, I confirmed.

I got the document in a few minutes, which I duly submitted to the Judge.

I was very worried. I feared my memory was fading.

In the evening I told my wife the incident and the fear of memory loss.

She said:

“That might be true. Other day when you went to the town centre, I asked you to bring a McDonald’s burger for me. On return you informed me that you had forgotten it.”

I replied:

“But that is an example of a flimsy forgetfulness. What happened today was a serious matter. Unfortunately, it reflects my memory is diminishing.”

Before concluding the story, I narrate the second limb of it.

 When I was a Bar student in London, I had a friend. After finishing the studies, he left for his home country, got married and started law practice in his district town. Later, he relocated to the provincial capital and eventually was elevated as a High Court Judge. The couple had no child of their own and adopted a baby girl. She grew up in their loving household. After graduating, she got married and had two girls.

She lived a few miles from his place. But her children used to go to a private primary school, which was just a hop, skip, and a jump from my friend’s official residence.

One evening I rang my friend up and during conversation asked him about his daughter and the grandchildren. He responded:

“In the morning, the daughter drops the children at the school. They are picked up by our maid after the school hours. They rest, do homework, play, have a dinner, and later their mother or father takes them home.”

He continued:

“I’m over the moon. I love the grandchildren. Even right now they are playing in front of me. The younger child looks more positively chirpy. When they talk to me all my tiredness from the court work evaporates. The fact is that I love them a lot.”

I knew the name of the older grandchild but not that of the little one. I asked him:

“What is the name of the younger girl, who appears to be your favourite?”

There was no response. I thought the line was cut off. I repeatedly enquired whether he could hear me. He murmured that he was on- line.

The fact of the matter was that he got himself in a real tizzy because he could not remember the name of his favourite grandchild who was playing right in front of him.

 As the phone was on speaker, my wife had clearly heard the conversation. Ending my friend’s feeling of suspense, she said:

“Her name is Elesha, the same as that of our granddaughter, who is a few months older than her.”

My friend heard it and apologetically confirmed it. He beseeched me not to tell her daughter about the incident. If she came to know that he did not remember the name of her little girl, he would be in hot water.

Before I rang off, I reminded him:

“You know very well I can’t keep the secret.”

But I was pleased to realise that my suspicion of memory loss was unfounded.

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