There’s a one million-dollar question in the time of death and dying that’s troubling the globe as much as gluttons, the latter being the species that has less to do with dying and more to do with being die-hard, practitioners of Lockdown’s leisurely art of gluttony, that is.
“Will the curve flatten?” ... “Is the curve flattening? ... “Can the curve flatten by May 16?” regurgitate the gabs of Pashas of Primetime Arnab, Rajdeep & Co, choking with a “Nation Wants To Know” kind of emergency and inadvertently poking India Reclining (in postures peculiar to Quarantined Couch Potatoes) with a ‘burning’ kind of urgency. For, “flattening of the curve” – the hottest new rhetoricism injected into the Covid19 narrative – is not only about pontificating on burning issues, but could also broadly translate into ‘burning’ of calories, from the Bloated Bellies of #BigtimeQuarantine.
Of middles anatomies & middle class
This season of “Flattening the Curve” is flaunting its fallout Left, Right and Centre – payslips look squashed like migrants’ faces ‘n’ fortunes as if Baahubali just squatted on the pay packets, GDP is shrinking faster than Rajnikanth or Rohit Shetty’s hairline, Sensex looks to be legging a Zumba with the Bears, and what to talk of Bollywood babes, even oil prices are boasting a Size Zero.
Practically everything is shrinking, except the quarantined middle anatomies of Middle Class India. Lockdown’s ‘Flatten the Curve’ hyperbolism, having fruitfully flirted with the elitism of the Famous and Fashionables’ “flattened” midriff narratives, seems to be doing a detour away from the piling potbellies of Middle Class India, just as a chit of a chihuahua contemplates skirting a meaty pile too tough to tackle.
{{/usCountry}}Practically everything is shrinking, except the quarantined middle anatomies of Middle Class India. Lockdown’s ‘Flatten the Curve’ hyperbolism, having fruitfully flirted with the elitism of the Famous and Fashionables’ “flattened” midriff narratives, seems to be doing a detour away from the piling potbellies of Middle Class India, just as a chit of a chihuahua contemplates skirting a meaty pile too tough to tackle.
{{/usCountry}}From Quarantined Couch Potatoes who are showing partiality to only one form of exercise – exercising zero restraint when it comes to chomping on calorie-packed packaged crispies whilst feasting on a visual diet of “Khichdi”, “Ramayan” & Co reruns – to many of the #wfh multitudes sporting zero-exercise lifestyles, much of Middle Class India is not gambolling towards treadmills, but instead treading towards another thing that’s getting fatter and fatter (from Lockdown’s stockpiling), the reluctant refrigerator.
Just as well, that in lockdown poor Swiggy & Co weren’t on the go, else they would have got much of the blame for Middle Class India’s middle anatomies not “flattening their curve! For, in the time of the #OldNormal, Swiggy, Zomato & Co have been to much of Middle Class India what a Ramu or Shamu were to days of yore – faithfuls ferrying from nukkad shops samosas, pakoras or pizzas galore.
Just as well this may be a blessing in disguise that a pizza delivery boy tested Corona positive, else Quarantine’s Couch Potatoes chumbling on home-delivered pizzas would have done for their “flattening of the curve” what Tablighi Jamaat did for Corona’s curve.
The curious case of “Honey, I Didn’t Shrink the Cals!”
Of falling flat, not flattening
Even as there are slim chances of flattening the curve mapping the middle regions of Middle Class India, there are other things bearing the brunt of flattening.
True to misgivings voiced before, too many cooks seem to be spoiling the quarantine broth. This fallout is felt when bearers of the Bloated Bellies of #BigtimeQuarantine start treading, not on the treadmill, but on the toes of the women of the house manning Lockdown’s kitchens.
In trying to be counted among the “too many cooks”, some treading toes send pots ‘n’ pans flying hither thither, like the fabled Flying Saucers. One of the things bearing the brunt of flattening thus is precious bone china – in a shattering rendition of the “bull/s in a china shop” script.
Or, as in a certain case, when a neighborhood scurried to the balconies upon hearing a blast – nah, not the blast of a musical performance like the bards on the balconies of Europe –
the sound and fury emanated from the flattening of a pressure cooker.
This ubiquitous utensil, wielded by “too many cooks” of Quarantine, echoed the “flatten curve” narrative when its voluminous curves breathed their last flattened into a warm embrace with the kitchen ceiling.
The curious case of “Honey, I Shrunk the Cooker!”