R Ranga Rao and Alzheimer's Disease

The following article On World Alzheimer's Day ... The story of Shanta Rao and Raju Ranga Rao was published in The Hindu Business Line in 2021, around the time that Ranga Rao died. It is heart-breaking to read this story.

Shanta Rao, Raju Ranga Rao and Alzheimer's Disease.

Shanta Rao still remembers the day it sank in. It was a cold winter in 2015, and the 74-year-old homemaker could feel the onset of her usual asthma attack. After having lived in the US for 50 years, she knew what she had to do - call for a cab and reach the neighbourhood hospital's emergency ward.

She tried to get to the phone but was gasping for breath. She called out to her husband, R Ranga Rao, a retired mathematician. "Raju, call a cab. We need to go," she said, knowing well that she would pass out soon.

He looked at the telephone. She pointed to the cab number scribbled on the emergency numbers held up by a fridge magnet. But he looked confused. The repeated gestures and prompts told him he needed to do something urgent but he could not figure out what or how. She saw him stand there helpless, crushed with guilt.

Ranga Rao has Alzheimer's Disease - an irreversible, progressive brain disorder that destroys memory and thinking skills. About two-thirds of people with dementia have Alzheimer's.

Ranga Rao was the typical absent-minded professor, loved by his students and colleagues at the University of Illinois (UIC), Chicago, for his warm and generous nature. In his long stint at UIC, he made fundamental contributions to statistics, Lie groups and Lie algebra.

Almost a decade after he retired in 2001, his wife noticed that he had grown a lot quieter, and was losing interest in his passions - research, politics and music. Soon, he was losing the ability to do basic chores such as making himself a cup of coffee or checking the telephone directory and dialling a number.

So that day in 2015, when Shanta had an asthma attack and Rao could not understand that he had to call for a cab (she finally drove to the hospital herself), she understood the extent of his deterioration.

They moved back to India permanently to stay close to family and brace for the storm. He went from calm to violent in no time. "He would try to lift beds and climb walls. He would want to walk three miles a day, bursting with energy," she says.

He began to address her as "amma" or mother, forgetting her name. He needed to be washed, bathed, fed and cuddled to sleep. He lost 99 per cent of his vocabulary. He recognised nobody but her. He spilled burning coffee on himself, scalding his skin. He cut his eyebrows by accidentally banging his head against the edge of a table. There were stitches, dressings and trips to the hospital for injuries small and big, all of them disorienting him further. They stopped travelling even for brief outings after doctors said he needed to be in a familiar place to avoid getting confused. She got two male nurses for help.

It's been a trying time. Their large family comes and goes. So do the help. She is the only permanent fixture in the equation. And she has moulded herself to be an extension of him: Waking up at the odd hours with him and sleeping through the day whenever he does, never stepping out of his sight for a moment.

Shanta is now 80, Ranga is 86. Communication between them has reduced to tone and touch. When Shanta speaks to him lovingly and strokes his hand, he looks at her as if he understands. He calms down, as if his world is in order. "I just want him to be comfortable," she says.

The other day, he reached out to her and rather suddenly kissed her on the cheek. Moments like these make up for the ordeal that has become her daily life. "I've learnt to take each day as it comes. I am strong now. I don't expect any miracles."

Last Updated October 2026