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A short story by BALLI KAUR JASWALMR SUNDARAM wakes to find his daughter sitting on the floor surrounded by a pile of his shirts.儲存倉 He coughs to catch her attention but she is too busy sewing to look up."What are you doing?" he asks."Making sure you don't get lost trying to find your way home again," Sushila replies.He picks up one of the shirts. A tag printed with his name and address has been sewn into it. The stitches are fine because Sushila inherited her mother's thin fingers, but Vanitha never wasted her time like this, looking for things to mend."The first time I met your mother, she was wearing an emerald green sari. A man who is losing his memory would not remember such details."Sushila's white hemming thread is ablaze as sunlight enters the room. "It doesn't work like that," she says. "I read about Alzheimer's Disease online. You might retain memories from a long time ago but you forget simpler things.""A little forgetfulness is expected at my age.""Your memory loss is not little.""My memory is not your concern.""It becomes my concern when you nearly kill us both by leaving the stove on.""It wasn't me!" he cries. Last Sunday, she burst into his room shaking a charred kitchen rag at him. He had no memory of being in the kitchen in the first place.Sushila picks up the shirt and carries on sewing. Stubborn like her mother, he thinks. "Have I told you this one? Your mother and I were having an argument when you were born. We hadn't spoken for two days..."Sushila pushes herself to her feet with a sigh and leaves the room. "Wait," he calls out, but then he forgets the rest of the story.SINCE the stove incident, there are few places that Mr Sundaram is allowed to go. 'Stay within eyeshot," Sushila reminds him as he leaves for the temple.The temple is nestled between an abandoned railway track and overgrown shrubs. Raindrops stutter against the tin roof. Praying should be simple like this; everything else is complicated. Vanitha's death was messy - appointments, treatments, bills, funeral arrangements.She'd gone to the hospital at the first sign of illness but punctuality didn't ease the shutting down of each organ, like lights going off in an emptying house. After she died, he kept finding her old prescriptions - useless papers which could not save her, but only promised to make dying easier.At the temple's entrance, shoes must be removed before worshippers descend a long flight of stairs into the thicket of jungle leaves and dismantled machinery. Often during prayers, Mr Sundaram is distracted by the thought of his shoes lying vulnerable to passers-by.His friend Mr Gopal is already there. "Woke up late today?" Mr Gopal asks."Another argument with Sushila."Mr Gopal shakes his head in sympathy and wanders off to pay respects to the idols. Mr Sundaram follows at a distance. He attempts a prayer but the words don't come to him, even as he squeezes his eyes shut and drowns out the nearby roar of city traffic. At least the rooftop drizzle has ceased but he predicts that the rain will return within minutes."Stay patient with your daughter," Mr Gopal advises afterwards as they make their way up the stairs."It's frustrating," Mr Sundaram says. "She keeps insisting that I see the doctor."Both men are breathless when they reach the top of the steps. When Mr Sundaram can't locate his shoes, panic seizes his chest. His expensive shoes! He notices a small crowd of youth across the street. Their laughter darts across the open air like arrows."Give back my shoes. Why you steal from old man?" he shouts in broken English. Two boys look up in surprise. Mr Sundaram spits angrily in their direction. They begin to shout, advancing towards him."What are you doing?" Mr Gopal cries. From a safe distance, a crowd of hawkers and customers have gathered to watch. Mr Gopal steers him back to the temple entrance and points to a pair of scuffed brown loafers. The soles have come slightly unglued and the leather is peeling like a scab."My shoes are black and so polished you can see your reflection in them," Mr Sundaram says."You wear these loafers every day. You stopped wearing the black shoes when you retired."Mr Sundaram crouches and inspects the loafers. Why doesn't he recognise them? He pushes his feet into them and feels the leather迷你倉最平collapse softly against his skin. They are comfortable but not familiar."Maybe a doctor's check-up won't be such a bad thing," Mr Gopal tells him on the walk home. They part to enter their separate estates. A late morning heat presses into Mr Sundaram's face and neck. He was wrong about the rain. The clouds have rolled away and the sky is wide like an ocean.AS THE taxi rolls into the hospital lobby, Mr Sundaram is reassured to know that this is not the same place where Vanitha died. From the window of her room, he used to watch schoolchildren stream across the overhead bridge. The waiting room here has smaller windows and the walls are painted a cheery blue. A petite nurse comes to take his weight, height and blood pressure and then takes him to a room to introduce him to Dr Ram."How are you?" Dr Ram asks."I'm fine," Mr Sundaram says. "My daughter made an appointment for me. She thinks I'm ill because I'm a bit forgetful."Dr Ram asks simple questions and takes notes. "Do you remember brushing your teeth this morning? Do you remember getting dressed?"Then he says he will do a test. Mr Sundaram expects to be escorted into a room full of whirring machines but they stay seated. "Repeat the following words after me," he says. "Cloud.""Cloud," Mr Sundaram says."Surprise.""Surprise.""Tiger.""Tiger."Dr Ram hands him a pen and pad. "Please draw a clock, with numbers and hands. The face must show it is ten past eleven," he says.Mr Sundaram is beginning to feel foolish but he does as he is told. Before he can look over his drawing, Dr Ram takes the paper from him and asks him to recite the words again."Surprise," Mr Sundaram says. "Tiger." His mind goes blank. "There is another word," he says feebly. Dr Ram does not respond. He is looking at his clock drawing and making more notes in his folder. "What does this mean?" Mr Sundaram asks."We'll need to do more tests," Dr Ram says. "In the meantime, I'll write you a prescription. The nurse will have it filled for you while you wait.""You did nothing," he protests as the nurse opens the door for him and leads him to the pharmacy counter. "A kindergarten drawing - that's what I came all the way here for?"The nurse glances around nervously and signals to her colleague, who comes marching over. He doesn't have a chance to complain before she hands him a bottle of pills. They are to be taken after each meal, she explains. Prescribed pills. This was the start for Vanitha. This was how she began to die."Sir," the stern nurse's voice breaks his thoughts. "Please listen."He takes the bottle from her and pushes it into his pocket. "Just tell me how much I have to pay," he says. She leads him to the cashier's desk to settle his bill."Is somebody coming to pick you up?" she asks."I'll manage." In a huff, he leaves the clinic. A line of taxis in the lobby inch forward, but he makes his way to the bus stop. Who says I'm losing my memory? I know I can take the 77, he thinks as the bus approaches.It is only after boarding that Mr Sundaram realises he does not have his wallet. He pats his trouser pockets - perhaps he left it on the pharmacy counter. He steps off the bus and retraces his steps. Through the glass doors, he glimpses the nurses chatting urgently with one another. The petite one looks up suddenly and notices him. Turning away, Mr Sundaram hears the bottle of pills rattling in his pocket.He takes out the bottle and considers these tiny white pills. A memory drifts into his mind: once, he ate a spicy meal and discovered he had run out of fennel seeds to chew afterwards. Vanitha offered him a mint but he rejected it."How did I ever end up with such a stubborn man?" she asked in mock exasperation, her face bright and beautiful as she lifted it to the sky. He finally tried it, but it was impossible to enjoy the stinging flavour. It was unnaturally strong and sweet - a guess at what breath must taste like to somebody who had never breathed before.The writer is a Singaporean who lives in Melbourne. Her debut novel Inheritance - about the unravelling of a Punjabi migrant family - was published to critical acclaim in Australia earlier this year. The novel is available in Books Kinokuniya and Books Actually.Next year, she will be a writer-in- residence at Nanyang Technological University.迷你倉