No formal ceremony is held, and no trumpet fanfare announces it. However, one morning we wake up, put on our spectacles, and realise we cannot remember the name of the very nice lady who has been living across the street for 23 years. And instead of panicking, we smile graciously and say, “Good morning, darling,” as if that is what we have been doing all along.
I used to watch older women do this with the serene confidence of seasoned diplomats. My mother had an entire social circle stitched together with nothing but endearments. “Darling” for the grocery boy. “Sweetheart” for the neighbour’s daughter and also for the tailor, even when he made her blouse sleeves resemble inflatable armbands. At forty, I thought she was being poetic. Or even philosophical. But now, at sixty, I realise she was simply being practical.
I observed women like my dear old Mum with mild fascination, because they seemed so comfortable and unbothered by the sheer volume of humans whose names had clearly escaped their memory as they floated through gatherings like benevolent socialites.
I assumed they did it deliberately. A style choice, you know, like wearing pearls with every outfit or owning more scarves than destinations to wear them to. But now that I am teetering at the threshold of the Darling Era myself, I know the truth. Which is that this is all about self-preservation.
The fact is that forgetting names is not a dramatic event because it does not arrive with lightning and thunder and the rest of it. Rather, it starts with a quiet skip or a gentle little lapse as one fine day you fail to remember the name of the electrician, which seems understandable since he appears only during crises.
This is followed by struggling to recall what your neighbour’s husband is called, which is also excusable as he barely appears at all. But then you forget the name of someone you see every week and that is when your heart sinks a little, because this person matters to you, and losing their name feels almost like losing a souvenir of your own life.
So, one reaches for something soft, something warm, and something that says – I may not recall the name, but I do remember how you make me feel.
The first time I used it, it slipped from my mouth like a whispered apology, but the lady I addressed looked overjoyed. Her face lit up as if I had declared her my long-lost friend. And soon, my ‘darlings’ began to spread like monsoon mould.
The newspaper man became darling; the bank teller became darling. And even the grumpy doctor who refused to allow me to Google my symptoms became a reluctant darling.
Mostly, it brought an unexpected tenderness into ordinary moments as people softened and looked at me, not as a forgetful woman but as someone who saw them with affection, a soft-focus lens in a sharp-edged world.
“But the other day, it got me into trouble” I chuckled.
“What did you do, Mom?” our daughter asked.
“I called our stern housing-society treasurer darling” I laughed.
“What did he do, Mom?” she questioned.
“He blinked twice and looked unsure” I snorted.
“You wait till he files a complaint” she scolded before dissolving into giggle.
Read Nickunj Malik’s last article: Broken gadgets
