Homebound in pandemic, extrovert turns homebody

SPICE OF LIFE: My dubious energies, having no other outlet, are getting focused on the family and they are not a little displeased by this new avatar I’ve metamorphosed into

Coronavirus has brought life, as we knew it, to a standstill and the phrase, twiddling your thumbs, has taken on a whole new significance. Today, confined to the house, I can vouch for its popularity and success because it has come to play an important role in passing the interminable hours between rising in the morning and going to bed at night.

Incarcerated in our houses, as with all inmates in similar circumstances elsewhere, things are coming to a head. (Representational photo)

During the day, you are likely to come across me staring into space in a state of solitude induced numbness, attempting to induce my lethargic brain into a state of meditation, as advised with nauseating regularity on television and newspapers. I am unable to decode the convoluted and inscrutable expressions like, become one with one’s self and plumb your inner worth, because try as I may, I have arrived at the conclusion that I am not made to be a Solitary Reaper. To bloom and thrive, I need a garden full of company.

I have this recurring image where I probably make a complete spectacle of myself, babble incoherently and fall hysterically on the shoulders of family and friends, one by one, once this nightmare of a lockdown is over but it will be one outburst to cherish.

Incarcerated in our houses, as with all inmates in similar circumstances elsewhere, things are coming to a head. My dubious energies, having no other outlet are getting focused on the family and they are not a little displeased by this new avatar I have metamorphosed into.

The gardener avoids me, shrinking into the bushes and is suddenly tone deaf to my shouts. He looks at me warily, taken aback, while I pace the garden, inspecting flower beds and pointing out the weeds with the fervour of the military and also now question him on his daily output. He obviously preferred me only complimenting his efforts on the foliage and resents my remarks on his idle loitering and numerous tea breaks.

The helps in the kitchen are at their wits’ end because of my new interest in the mysterious depths of the refrigerator from where I unearth forgotten jars and boxes of leftovers. I interrogate them on the whereabouts of old utensils, and forgotten crockery which come to mind now that I am homebound. I am at loggerheads with them constantly while they mutter to each other, probably also ruing the day Covid made us all a part of a lockdown and transformed me into a nit-picking shrew.

My children, working from home, are tearing their hair out because they find me constantly knocking or peering into their rooms, commenting on the disarray and mess, offering and cajoling with a tray of fruit or juice in hand. “Mom, you cannot just barge in like that with your questions, I am in a meeting,” is the exasperated refrain. They haven’t seen their mother so domesticated in quite a while.

Husband dear is the only one gloating. The lockdown has managed to achieve what he never could. pallavisingh358@gmail.com

The writer is a Jalandhar-based freelance contributor