<b>Kishore Singh:</b> Let's hear it for the family

I ask my father what he would like for a drink. "Modi seems to be doing rather well internationally," he tells me. "Did you listen to his speech in Sydney," I ask him. "No, no," he says, "I'm not feeling cold, though it is chilly outside." Our conversation is surreal because my father doesn't hear too keenly, which makes him irritable. He has a number of hearing aids of varying strengths, and against advice from his specialist, he believes in changing them and their frequencies several times a day, as a result conversation is a matter of hit and miss. Mostly miss.

My sister has inherited the condition too. If you think she's nodding agreeably with you, it's only because she doesn't want to make the effort to join a conversation that will require her to sit in your lap to make any sense at all. You know this when you ask her a question and she nods gaily. I suspect people suspect her mental health. Of my two brothers, one doesn't let anyone else talk, so you have no idea whether he can hear or not. The other doesn't talk at all, which could be on account because he is hearing impaired, or socially impaired. Frankly, I'd rather not comment.

Now my mother has joined the cabal. "I'll come to Delhi next month," she informs me, when all I asked her was whether she needed any more paracetamol tablets that I import for her on a regular basis. "Medicines," I emphasise - I'm in a hurry - "do you need another batch". "The poor child is getting married in January, she says, it'll be so cold." I sigh. "You need to get your memory checked," she tells me, "I've been asking for my medicines, don't you remember?" At least I can still hear, I say to myself.

I can't remember a conversation that has made sense back home in Bikaner for the longest time. Maybe it has to do with the fact that old dialogues are renewed as though a gap of a few months, or years, has no consequence. "Did you like the mojito I made?" a cousin asks. I'm having a glass of wine. His wife reminds me of a previous occasion when he was tending the bar - eight months back. "It was wonderful," I confirm. To tell him I have no memory of it would upset him.

It's catch-up time. Cousins and nephews whose names I can't even recall have got married, or migrated, or become parents. I don't ask family members how they are for fear they'll trout out a laundry list of births and deaths. I once commiserated with an uncle thinking he'd lost his wife, who was only away because her daughter had divorced her husband. Increasingly, the gossip is about estranged couples and adolescents taking their parents to court for a share of their property. I might not remember them, but it's salacious and juicy, so what's not to like?

My father likes pointing out old pictures from the family album, but I suspect he doesn't remember which baby picture is which grown up adult any more. This causes some mirth that he takes for approval. "See how he's grown up," he points to a baby picture that he mistakes for my brother. It's actually of my sister, who's miffed about it. "I'm going home," she announces to my mother. "That's good," says my mother, "and you can cook the dinner too." I'm going to miss it all back home in Delhi.