This lockdown has grown talents out of cracks in the wall. Your friends have posted vigorous home gym videos. You, in turn, exercised one finger, texting appreciative comments, which sometimes auto-corrected from ‘How fit!’ to ‘How fat!’ This then required exercising all the other fingers, texting profuse apologies, ending in ‘Love ur lickdown vid.’
Talented people posted pics of four-tiered cakes they whipped together with four ingredients. Of designer haircuts they gave themselves. You too followed a fancy stylist’s free video (may his scissors shrivel up and die!). You snipped off half an eyebrow and slashed your forehead. Thank God and government for the mandatory mask, so that no one recognised you.
Not to brag, but you have super-skilled yourself too. You have finally got your kids eating raw food (since the option was cook-it-yourself). You have successfully saved: for example, you have saved enough weight, camel-like, to last through eight months of famine.
Your neighbours have learnt Swahili, the harmonica, prism-healing — through brilliant, free webinars. Not to be outdone, you studiously downloaded all the links. Then snored through each in turn. You snored through office calls and family calls, too. Played back, your snoring was rather musical. Another talent!
You too learnt a new language — of non-living things. Your snack cabinet pleaded to be opened many times a day. Your broom lied about sweeping the corners. Your jeans refused to obey dictatorial things like zips.
You too learnt to appreciate music, your favourite being the silence of kids who finally fell asleep. You learnt that team work was throwing everything into a one-pot meal and letting them embrace differences and cook together. You finally understood poetry, which was the sound of the doorbell when your maid eventually arrived.
You have learnt not to compete with those who used this lockdown to enrich minds, reduce flab, declutter cupboards, start kitchen gardens, practise mental peace. You spent most of the day listening to multi-person calls while chopping vegetables (and occasionally fingers), pulling children off their devices, then off each other, then throwing their devices back at them. You banged pans less out of patriotism and more out of frustration. You wept on the phone to your maid who gave you better advice than the brilliant free webinars. You have emerged grateful. Fatter. Hairier. Lazier. But grateful.
Where Jane De Suza, author of Flyaway Boy, pokes her nose into our perfect lives.
