[The following is the ranting of a sleep-deprived, anxiety riddled mind.
Part fiction, part hallucination, part desperate attempt at humour. Try not to
read too much into it]
This is day
526th of the national lockdown, or some figure close enough to that.
I am not sure. Time has stopped holding much meaning for me. I register the
passing of days through my sweeping ritual. Every time the broom hits the
corner square at the back end of the master bedroom, and the long grassy
tail-end moves in the exact same curvature to the next square, carrying the
exact same amount of dust every single time, I realise with a jolt that a new
day has come.
The house
is sparkling. Baba has cleaned every single surface, every unreachable corner,
every forgotten piece of furniture and decorative item. I am not kidding about
this; he has even scrubbed the walls with soapy water. I think he is planning to
start on a second round soon. (To all the men still sitting on their asses with
wives or mothers or sisters waiting on them hand and foot: now is a great
opportunity to show that you have some social utility beyond the bedroom. Oh,
also shoot your female relatives; they are largely the reason why you are the
way you are to begin with).
Speaking of
household chores, doing the laundry is quickly topping the list of vital to-dos
for me, even more than cooking. Here’s the thing, when I came home to Baba’s, I
had planned to stay the weekend, not for a month. Guess how many sets of
clothing I brought along, not to mention the unmentionables. I have raided old
wardrobes and found stuff from my high school days. If nothing else causes a
mental breakdown for me, there is always the thought that some of these skirts
and pants actually fit my derriere once upon time. Once this whole thing gets
over, I am going on a shopping spree the likes of which has never been
witnessed in this family. Never again will I undermine the value of retail
therapy. Minimalism is a beautiful thing for some, but if you really want to kill me, try knocking me
out instead.
Entertainment,
you say? Maybe I should read more. Yeah well, I have had the same idea, except
it has to be a choice between Fifty
Shades of Grey and The Tibetan Book
of Living and Dying. My mind refuses to concentrate on anything else. There
are other self care options too, of course, such as hair and beauty treatments.
I could always try at-home nose-piercing with a sewing needle, but I’m afraid that
the mere hint of something like that will make Baba decide that it is finally
time to pack me off to Ranchi. But once
the lockdown lifts, I am definitely dyeing my hair neon pink. Or electric blue.
The details still have to be finalized.
My respect
for Anne Frank has increased manifold. She managed to survive for two whole
years inside that secret annexe without losing her mind and biting one of her
co-habitants. Two weeks, and my resolve is already weakening.
For someone
who used to think that she enjoys solitude and a solitary lifestyle, I clearly
love human contact far too much. So much, in fact, that I am contemplating
downloading Tinder and swiping on candidates in Durgapur. That bad? That bad. And I
miss work – or whatever it is that I pass off as work in the office. It is no
fun being lazy and then be pulled up for it by your manager unless you can
complain about it to your co-workers who for some strange reason still believe that you
are a highly productive person.
My
circadian cycle has gone for a toss. Until a few weeks ago, my ability to fall
asleep quickly and deeply almost on demand was a source of equal degrees of awe
and envy for many. Not anymore. Now I stay awake (or worse, nearly awake) almost the entire night,
tossing and turning in bed and seeing all sorts of cockroaches, serial killers
and demons lurking right outside my bedroom window, making the stray dog yelp
pitiably every now and then. Whoever cast the evil eye on my beauty sleep,
congratulations, it worked. My diet, on the other hand, has improved
exponentially. This has little to do with my willpower, of course. I had
forgotten what a painfully healthy, snack-less life my father leads. Now my
afternoon refrigerator raids produce fruits, and I have even taken to eating
salad twice a day. On top of that, I am actually working out to stave off
boredom. Wonders never cease. I only wish my acne noticed my virtuous lifestyle
shift and bade me farewell.
Of course, unlike the government, my body hasn’t
forgotten about the existence of menstruation, and more importantly, about PMS.
As if getting through the day was not difficult enough already. Now I’m crying
enough to water the entire garden. And when I am not, it is because I’m
mentally writing hate mails to all my friends. I miss you all terribly, but I
have prepared detailed lists that jot down every last trait that make you
really hateful people to spend time with. But don’t worry, I won’t be sending
them to you; I do intend to have
friends to visit after the self isolation period is up. Also, quite frankly, I’m
not keen on seeing any return lists of the same variety about myself.
Phone calls
and video chats are the saviours, the unsung, oft-ignored heroes of the hour. Or
at least they were in the first few days. Now I am running out of things to
talk about, particularly non corona-related things. Even there, if you can be
dramatic and join me in railing about the absurdity of the pandemic and the
lockdown, that’s fine. Maybe join me in a co-grumbling-and-moaning session
about humanity being ridiculous, and about my not getting a steady supply of
ice cream and external validation. That is something that my tempestuous mood
swings can handle. If, on the other hand, you want to take a staid, stoic,
realistic/pessimistic stance on how long it may be before things get back to
normal, and how it is in everyone’s best interest to accept the uncertainty
without throwing a tantrum, I do not want such negativity in my life right now,
thank you very much. It will be at least another week before I achieve that
level of Zen, so don’t hurry me.
For now, I’ll
just have to decide whether I want to go to the Himalayas or Las Vegas once the
lockdown lifts. Maslow’s hierarchy, here I come!
