“The front window of a car.”
Hemu squinted for a few moments, trying to make sense of the words.
“Not important,” the amnesiac said. “I hit my head very hard, and it damaged my memory.”
“Hmm.” Hemu studied the smooth scar where the amnesiac’s left eye should have been. “And you won’t . . . you won’t regain your memories someday?”
“My doctor is hopeful. But the chances are very slim.”
Hemu looked down at his hands for a few moments. “I hope you do,” he said.
“I hope you do, too.”
Hemu studied the amnesiac for a while, pondering something. “What was it like when you woke up?” he asked. “Could you even speak?”
“Oh, yes, I could speak,” the amnesiac answered. “Uh. It’s complicated, retrograde amnesia. That’s what they call mine. You often remember the way things work, but not your personal experience of them. I knew what a mother was, but not anything about mine. How to read, but not how I learned it. I remember the rules of football, but I don’t know if I’ve ever played.”
“That’s interesting,” Hemu mused. “I’m forgetting, but not in any order. I don’t remember—I don’t know what they call it, but I remember primary school before it, and university after. There must have been something in between, but it’s blank.”
“You still remember more about yourself than me.” The amnesiac smiled.
Hemu scrunched his face up, thinking. Suddenly he sat forward, his expression intensely serious. “Do you remember what sex is?”
The amnesiac laughed. He liked this Hemu.
THEY WAITED FOR DR. AVANTHIKAR’S AIDES TO PEEL OFF THE adhesive backings and apply the sensors to their foreheads and temples. It was more normal to do it with someone else, the amnesiac thought as he watched them brush Hemu’s hair out of the way and stick a little white circle above his dark eyebrows, then attach a thin cable to it.
“Of course you already know,” one of the aides said to them both. “But please refrain from large or sudden movements, so as not to disconnect the wires.”
Hemu watched them file out and close the door behind them. “The way your amnesia works, you wouldn’t remember your favorite food then, would you?” he asked the amnesiac.
“No, unfortunately.”
“That might be for the best,” he said. “I still remember mine, and it makes what they feed me here that much worse. So healthy. So tasteless.”
“I like your food,” the amnesiac said. “Indian food, I mean.”
“Not this stuff,” he sighed. “It’s all just medicinal mush. I want something different—like American food. Yeah, I want American food.”
“What American food do you like?”
“All the stuff you can get in the Western restaurants downtown. Pizza, french fries, macaroni and cheese.” He paused. “You know, they say that in the latest stages, the shadowless forget to eat. Apparently it’s happening with some of the others in Nashik. They’re fitting them with stomach tubes now so they don’t starve or dehydrate.”
“Oh,” the amnesiac said, looking down. The thought was horrible.
Hemu glanced around awkwardly. He held his hands in the shape of a small brick. “I, uh, I met an American tourist near the cricket field once,” he continued, trying to steer the conversation away from the dark place it had gone. “He told me about a sandwich Americans eat as children. A jelly peanut sandwich?”
“A peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” The amnesiac smiled. He pictured it in his mind, and wondered if he’d also never had one.
Hemu nodded. “Yes, that was it. That’s what I want. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
“I can try and get you one,” the amnesiac offered.
“No—I’m sorry,” Hemu apologized. “I didn’t mean to impose. I was just complaining.”
“I think it would be no trouble,” the amnesiac said. He considered their hotel. He was sure the lobby restaurant could make one if he asked, or at least tell him and Dr. Zadeh where a Western grocery store might be so they could buy the ingredients themselves.
“I’m grateful,” Hemu said. “Only if it’s easy. Please don’t go out of your way.”
“Really, I’m happy to.”
Hemu nodded thoughtfully. “I want to share something with you. To repay you, for the sandwich.”
“Oh, you don’t have to,” the amnesic protested, but Hemu waved him off.
“It’s not much, really. Given . . .”—he gestured to the room, to mean his enforced stay in the hospital—“I really can only give you memories—that’s basically all I’ve got. Well, I’ve got them for now.”
The amnesiac bowed his head solemnly.
“There’s an old story from our mythology—sort of related to all this.” Hemu nodded at the amnesiac’s shadow. “Have you ever heard the legend of Surya, the Hindu god?”