Recall

Last summer , I paid a visit to my older siblings . If one is in forties , the siblings generally tend to be in their fifth or sixth decade of existence. This is one place on earth, where you are still called by your childhood nick name ,which you have partly forgotten yourself ("Mummu",really , come on ,now). 

On a particularly sleepy afternoon ( you have just been treated to an excellent feast), the doorbell rings ,you open the door, and a face lights up at the sight of you -"Mummu!" The face exclaims with instant recognition. The face is familiar , only faintly , like a sepia shot, grainy with time , seen through cataract-ridden eyes.He could be a mug shot of a dangerous murderer you saw in your neighbourhood "thana" in your childhood. He waits expectantly , chewing his lower lip , teeth baring into "I-know-you-can't-place -me "dare. 

A resident comes to rescue , and takes him away , mildly glaring at you ,accusingly.

Recall becomes a frantic search for a lost name .As no one seems to be forthcoming , your quest becomes a lonely one and you turn into a "lone crusader".
A face peering , a voice jeering , you are on the verge of remembering the name , and then blank . Rightly said, “like stroke , one word at a time .”
For the life of you , you can’t. You are furiously rummaging the desks, drawers , rooms , mansions , junkyards of your memory . Zilch. You scale dizzying heights of frustration , and forget other things in the process. Picking up a child from school in time , grocery list,dental appointments . All the time , the cogs and wheels are whirring , clicking , “what was the name ? Come on , what was his name ?”
Recalling becomes an obsession.

Cars behind you honk in exasperation , as you fail to notice the green light at crossings. Your raddiwala  , noticing the faraway look in your eyes , does away with the usual "hisaab". Your spouse sighs at the dining table because you have  absently eaten the third bowl of kheer , which was meant for the late coming offspring. Your teenage son is maniacally jubilant , as you did not notice the spikes on his head  ,hesitantly turning pink at the tips.

At the subzi mandi , a behenji in pink salwaar kameez ,  elbows you and pushes ahead  , picks up a lauki and shouts "Hari hai ?"

Then , like an epiphany , it strikes you -"Hari , harikaka." 

And you race back home , laukiless, screaming into your landline -"I got his name , "hari , hariya, harikaka."