Stilled life

Like my mother’s favourite refrain these days goes ‘every day is worse than Sunday.’ Then born and brought up bang in the middle of town with the landmark Kurisupally chapel next door and a busy junction where vehicles slowed to gather steam before springing in different directions, it was understandable that she found the quietude rattling. We have been living for the past many decades in the suburbs, about two kilometres from where she grew up which hasn’t diminished her fondness for clamour. A few days into the Corona lockdown, she began to look forward to the fish seller blow-horning his way through our otherwise serene street. It took some effort on my part to convince her against calling the guy; more than any actual need for his wares – we were sufficiently provisioned – it was the human interaction she yearned for. She did seem duly indignant when it was reported later that the monger might have been vending stale catch intended as manure for plantations though I suspect, given an option, she would have chosen consumption of the frozen fertiliser over the newly descended deafening silence. 

Every day like Sunday – Palai town

When the state government decided to lift the lockdown partially – one of the two safest districts was mine, Kottayam – after successfully flattening the curve, we were all delirious with anticipation. As soon as the date for the grand re-entry into normal life was announced, mile-long shopping lists were prepared, the car polished, excited posts put on social media, relatives in other districts were phoned casually to make sure they knew of our good fortune. Probably with ample reason, as many of those from Kerala who had participated in a religious congregation that eventually turned out to be recklessly contaminated still remained untraceable with their mobile phones switched off, the central government, on the eve of the limited liberation, informed the state government to roll back the easing of restrictions. In the ensuing confusion, shops were ordered to be shut by cops not without minor fracases in many places. Taxis and auto rickshaws were sent back and offices told to function with one-third capacity; the only shops that weren’t shuttered were the grocers, vegetable and medicine vendors. Into this edginess that ensued from the melee, I ventured the afternoon of April 21, 2020. 

Quests that go on – the cinema hall

A posse of policemen stood around in a gaggle inside the waiting shed of the once-buzzing bus stand. They regarded me warily with feigned disinterest, wiping the beads of tropical sweat away from their brows with rolled handkerchiefs dragged out from beneath their uniform collars. On the other side was a vegetable shop and I sat in the car considering its wares running the list over in my mind. They had bananas, those big, yellow ones, the ones called ‘ethakka’ in Kerala. Way before the advent of Corona, it had been removed unceremoniously from our diet – while the father complained that it caused constipation, the mother maintained it was fattening. Today we had unanimously included it in our list; it took the top slot with aplomb. Nothing like a steamed ‘ethakka’ to go with ‘puttu,’ a breakfast staple.

One ripe realisation that has dawned on the Keralite, courtesy of the lockdown, is that they have enough saris and gold and even if they didn’t rush to the textile shop or the jeweller every week they will survive. Life will go on unhindered even if they are not privy to the newest kasavu and kancheevaram designs or the just launched sparkling parure. The biggest cloth store in town, belonging to a relative, loomed desolate like a swank godown. I thought of the many occasions I waited outside in the uncovered parking area for the mother or a sister long enough to expect them to exit lugging a sledge-full but instead they would emerge swinging a little packet containing what they called ‘blouse pieces.’ It was a tricky purchase alright – that little towel-size fabric had to most faithfully reflect a multi-hued, nine-yard sari choking on prints and a phantasmagoria of thread works. Most of the saris these days came with an in-built jacket which is never good enough. Across the road was the biggest cinema hall – the poster of the movie that was exhibited before lockdown still flapped in the wind ‘Varane avashyam undu’ or ‘Groom wanted.’ Some quests seem to have no end in sight. 

Lessons for the Keralite – textile shop

The main drag bifurcates into one way traffic that traces the Meenachil River. Continuous rain for the past three days had managed to fill some pockets of water in an otherwise dry bed. This stretch also passes through the backside of many shops that open on to the main road. Behind a prominent bakery I spotted a young chap wailing into his phone. He wore a crumpled tee shirt, his hair was dishevelled and his shoulders slouched, wracking now and then. A Chicken Little in the rain, a dark dweeb: look at what abject desperation reduces people to. I didn’t even want to hazard a guess what might be going wrong in his life – there were too many possibilities. The traffic merges near the public library and the town gets over in about half a kilometre after passing through some prime real estate taken up by the resident sporting paduasoy, the bishop. Right opposite this verdant paradise is an old traditional building which always catches my attention and fancy. It is the office of a drama company ‘Palai Communications.’ 

Prime real estate – the bishop house

These itinerant artistes I admire. I have always marvelled at their ability to travel for long hours in the most rickety of vehicles, arrive at dusty, bustling maidans, apply makeup and change in basic greenrooms, and to the plangent shriek of a bell come alive as new-breath characters usually in front of an unappreciative, inattentive, drunken audience. No room for error, no retakes. As a teenager I used to peer intently into their vans for a glimpse of the ladies to fall in love with. A few months ago motorcycling across Leh, I came across a film shoot where the actor emerged from his vanity van just before the director went ‘lights.’ It was a song sequence and the extras were all lined up, reflectors, jimmy jibs, dance master, director, associates, leading lady everyone else in place. Privileges taken for granted, why there haven’t been movie stars I really wanted to meet. 

Itinerant artistes – the drama company

On my way back, a pink patrol car trailed me for some distance before overtaking, ‘1515’ all over. I nodded my appreciation at the lady cops for being out there – no risk allowance makes up for sticking your neck out to a contagion. We were doing what we could to protect our realm, the way it suited our comprehension – wearing masks and gloves and washing hands, maintaining physical distances, dividing areas affected-wise, making sure nobody gadded about unnecessarily.  Did any of these compensate for what we did not know? For what we refuse to acknowledge? That we have been brought to our knees by a little virus that actually looks like the clown among viruses? The clown today wears the crown. The Joker of the virus-world. It is not any of our carefully made bombs or rockets worth millions that is making us cower inside our houses but a slippery scamp from a rogue laboratory. 

Life in standstill – the bus station

Ha! Imagine how funny is that! Doesn’t it affront your intellect? Your sense of precious self-worth that was bourgeoning all these years? What happened to us, man, the supreme animal? The master and creator of destinies? Of the thousand things that could have gone wrong – accident, breakup, breast cancer, disaster, demotion, divorce, mugging, lightning, wasp sting, pending payments, striking employees, devastating fires, snake bite, missing pet, lost ATM card – it had to be the innocuous breath that suddenly decided to ferry death. One can choose not to send it, but cannot see it coming. Just when you think you had it figured, it throws yet another deadly curveball. The toll in lives is just one. 

When I reach home I will also doff my mask and wash my hands with soap – for not less than 20 seconds. I will take the grocery packets and vegetables and immerse them in soap water, then rinse them. Afterwards, I will bathe, lathering myself thoroughly. They say foam smothers the fluffy Corona.

For now I hope this stays true.