Title: "The Songs She Couldn’t Forget: A Mother’s Dance with Alzheimer’s"

Dear Friends,Today, I share a story not of loss, but of love that outlived memory—a story of my mother, a woman who taught schoolchildren by day and hummed Tagore’s melodies by twilight, until Alzheimer’s and dementia gently blurred the lines of her world.The Teacher Who Carried Rabindra Sangeet in Her SoulMy mother, Begum Razia, was a primary school teacher in our village. For 35 years, she shaped young minds, recited Tagore’s poetry with a dramatist’s flair, and led the school choir in renditions of “Amar Shonar Bangla” that brought parents to tears. At 60, when she began forgetting her students’ names—then her own recipes, then mine—we learned the cruel truth: Alzheimer’s had begun its slow, relentless march.Yet, even as her mind frayed, Rabindra Sangeet remained her anchor. Songs she’d sung since girlhood—“O amar desher mati”, “Aakash Bhora Shurjo Tara”—still flowed from her lips long after she forgot ours. One monsoon afternoon, when she no longer recognized my daughter Progga, Propgga placed a harmonium in her lap. Without hesitation, Ma sang, “Megher Kole Rod Heseche…” (The sun smiles from the clouds’ embrace). In that moment, we realized: Memory fades, but the soul’s music never does.A Family’s Embrace: Three Generations Under One RoofIn our Bangladeshi joint family—13 of us under the same tin roof, sons, daughters-in-law, grandchildren—caring for Ma became a shared pilgrimage. We crafted routines steeped in love:Dawn: My youngest brother’s daughter, Gunjan, walked her to the school field where she’d once taught. She’d point at the tamarind tree and murmur, “My students hid there during lunch breaks.”Afternoons: My eldest sister-in-law fed her rice, hilsa fish, and potol curry, patiently enduring Ma’s protests: “This isn’t my daughter’s cooking!” (She’d forgotten I was her daughter.)Evenings: The grandchildren strummed guitars while Ma tapped her feet to “Aguner Poroshmoni”. When her voice faltered, my eldest brother—a man of few words—would hum along, tears glinting in his eyes.The Day She Returned to Her ClassroomIn 2010, Ma dressed in her faded school sari and declared, “I must teach today.” Instead of dissuading her, we took her to the school. The current headmaster, once her student, greeted her with folded hands: “Madam, will you bless us with a song?”She sang “Ebaar Tora Mrityu Gang-e Paani De” (Now, pour life into the river of death). Teachers and students alike showered her with marigolds. That day, Alzheimer’s didn’t steal her identity—it revealed a new one: the beloved “Madam” who lived in every heart she’d touched.The Final SymphonyMa passed at 87, her hands clasping a harmonium-shaped pillow we’d sewn. In her final months, she rarely spoke, but when the grandchildren sang “Tumi Kemon Kore Gaan Koro”, her eyes would crinkle with a smile. After her death, we found her diary. On the last legible page, she’d written: “Do my children know their laughter is my favorite Rabindra?”To Fellow CaregiversAlzheimer’s may cloud memories, but it cannot dim the light of love. What songs, rituals, or small acts of joy keep your loved one’s spirit alive? How does your family weave together to honor them?You’re not alone in this journey.