The first time My Father asked me, " who are you?" I Laughed.
I thought he was joking.
I was eleven years old in 2016. Old enough to understand homework. Not old enough to understand how a man can forget his own daughter.
He didn't laugh back.
His eyes were empty.
And in that moment, something inside me broke but I didn't know it yet.
Before the accident, my father was a driver.
He was not a rich man. Not an educated man. But he was strong.
He smelled of diesel and dust and long highways. He would come home after weeks on the road and lift my younger sister in his arms like she weighed nothing. My brother was still small then. My elder sister used to complain that he loved me more.
I believed them.
Because he did.
I was the fourth child. I have three elder sisters, one younger sister and one little brother
One driver Father
One mother who never rested
And one grandmother who watched everything silently from the corner of the house.
We were not rich. But we were compete.
Until 2016.
I don't remember the exact date of the accident.
But I remember the silence that entered our house after it.
That day, the phone rang in the afternoon.
I still remember the sound
Mummy picked it up.
Her face changed in front of us.
She didn't scream.
She didn't cry.
She just sat down slowly on the floor.
"Your Father has met with an accident" mother said.
Those words did not sound real.
Hospitals smell different when someone you love is inside.
Cold, white, Quiet.
He survived.
But something did not.
His memory.
He didn't recognize his wife.
He didn't recognize his elder daughter.
And when his eyes stopped on me, I waited.
He looked at me for a long time.
Then he asked....
" Who is this girl?"
That girl.
I stopped breathing.
After that day. Our house changed.
Not loudly.
Slowly.
Like a Crack in a wall that spreads quietly.
Mother became everything.
Mother, father, decision maker, protector.
She handled hospitals bills.
She handled school fees.
She handled relatives questions
And she handled him.
My father sat in the same house.... but he felt like a guest.
He would sometimes look at old photographs like they belonged to strangers.
Sometimes he would stare at me in a strange way... not confused, not loving.
Just....observing.
As if trying to remember something he couldn't.
Or didn't want to.
Years Passed.
We adjusted.
My eldest sister got married. She is now a teacher and has a one year old baby boy. My second sister is fashion designer and she works in chandigarh. My third sister became a makeup artist and Now I am a college student
My younger sister also a college student and my brother is in class 9th.
Life moved forward.
But something always felt incomplete.
Like a question no one asked.
Once again, life took another unexpected turn.
In 2025, my grandmother died.
Before her death, she held my hand tightly.
Her finger were weak. Her voice even weaker.
She said something that still wakes me up at night.
Not all forgetting happens because of memory loss.
I didn't understand.
I thought she was confused.
She looked toward my father's room when she said it.
Then she closed her eyes forever.
After her death, we were cleaning her old trunk.
Inside were clothes. Old letters. Photographs.
And then...
A hospital file.
Not the one we had.
Another one.
Different doctor.
Different date.
It was form two weeks after the accident.
The report said:
"Patient shows selective memory response. No major brain damage found in latest scan."
No major brain damage.
Selective memory response.
My hands started shaking.
All these years....
Was it possible-----
That he didn't forget everything?
That he chose what to forget?
And what to remember?
I looked toward his room.
He was sitting quietly.
Drinking tea.
Watching television.
Clam... too Clam.
For the first time in my life.....
I was not scared that my father forget me.
I was scared that maybe----
He didn't.
And that night , when I passed by his room, i heard him whisper something.
Very softly.
Very clearly.
My name.
Not " that girl "
Not " who are you "
My real name.
Perfectly.
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Continue....