Okay, the son ( the person who pushes me to writing ) gave another ultimatum today. The conversation on w.app video ( the only way to stay connected with him) went something like this.

Son: “Ma, you know you have a thing called iPad, you remember na that it is not meant to kept charged at 100% all the time ! If you use it for typing once in a while it won’t explode.” I hear the sarcasm in his tone and try to dodge it with …

Me: “Babu , I do not think anyone is interested in reading my idle blog in these stressful times.”

Son :”Well, I will read. Write for me. Write for only one reader – me.”

Well, when has the mother denied her son of anything. But the lazy fingers objected, and I came up with another excuse ….

Me : “You know I generally write and post my blogs on weekends , assuming people will have some free time to read over the weekends.”

Son : “Ma, every day seems like a weekend these days. Though we are working, but we are home. So stop procrastinating and write.”

After this conversation I ran out of valid arguments and gave him a half hearted promise to write something. Life is in a sad state these days, I will try to laugh a bit but at my own cost. In an attempt to be funny if sentiments are hurt, pardon me.

It was the Holi weekend when the daughter came home to spread her joy and spend some time with Ma. This was a long weekend, what with the festival falling on Tuesday and Monday slated to be WFH. I had four long days to pamper her silly. The fridge was stocked with her favorite dishes, families were invited home for lunch, my holiday spirit was set. Yes , the virus attack had started by then, we had no plans to play colour, or go out for shopping, yet quarantine was still not on our minds. Before the weekend was over , reality started hitting us in rolling waves. The news on television was scary. Daughter’s office declared a work from home / no travel ( her work includes travel) . And so started the Home Office story.

A small disclaimer at this point about my family. We are not totally dysfunctional, but we don’t always work in sync with each other ! We often bond over silence ( I am the only one who talks as though my life depends on it ), we don’t give hugs and kisses easy ( I am the only one who needs these touchy things ), and lastly we four stay in four different cities ( I alone live at home). You do get the trend here, the children are blessed more with the father’s genes and I am playing an unequal game of 3:1 . My children have been out of home after schooling, now they are working individuals. The husband too has to stay away from home ( working) for most part of the year. It is certainly not my doing (though I would love to drive him crazy most of the time, but driving him out of the house is never my intention) . In the absence of three major players of the family my house has become my open field, where I get to make the rules and play the game my way. Now under the changed circumstances the two other players are about to enter or have already entered the field, that is home.

Week one begins. The daughter is disgruntled about this work from home business. She proclaims, “Work can not get done from home as good ” ( I totally agree, it just gets done better! ) She tries to convince her boss about it, but he is a sensible man ( much regard ). Therefore she settles down to start working from home, laptop, charger, phone, ear phones, bottle of water, all in place. At this point the ‘stay at home’ mom in me gets into a frenzy mode of guilt. I know how to make her …’feel at home’ , but how can I create a ‘ feel at office ‘ mode at home ! I feel like a fellow conspirator , hand in glove with the boss, grueling conspiracy to keep my daughter away from office. To counter the guilt ( self inflicted ) I start converting my home into office space. The dining table becomes the biggest work station. The lack of a proper office chair at home is brought to my knowledge by the daughter. I glare at my all wood dining chairs,they look anything but comfortable at this moment. I try to add a few cushions, but it doesn’t work. With some more added guilt I prepare another office space , my favorite library room. The over worked daughter must get a choice of two office rooms in the house. I pack up my fancy lamps, the crystal show pieces, the arty nicknacks. Trust me, it hurts a bit, I have grown a strange sense of attachment with these inanimate objects. On a blank slate I write the word “OFFICE ” in bold capitals and hang it on the wall, just to create some drama. I feel sorry for her insanely long hours at work. I try to cheer her up with variety food, scented candles, fairy lights fresh bedsheets, yet I know this is not how office operates.

The daughter had come home for four days, her suitcase had only that many clothes, thus in natural progression my wardrobe doors open up for her. What is mine is all hers, who can deny that fact. These things are easier said than done, players are possessive about their jerseys and not without reason ! For an extremely organized person like me ( please don’t call me OCD, it is not my disorder it is my strength ) seeing the gradual intermingling of the top shelf clothes with the middle shelf, and the middle shelf with the bottom shelf is hurtful to say the least. And at times quite magically the clothes escape the wardrobe and end up on the floor in a bundle. But my bundle of joy unawares of these minor mix ups, continues taking calls, typing away solutions to much larger problems. Seeing her at work I silently smile to myself and think it is but I who educated this young educator.

Week two begins with the father of the daughter entering home. He is on his regular break from work for a week plus time. I am somewhat glad to shift focus from daughter to father. By this time the virus has started spreading more rapidly than one thought it would. The false hope that India had an invisible immunity robe is being harshly ripped off our minds. The father (I often forget that he is my husband and not father) is home on holiday and is not willing to stay indoors all the time. He does not have to work from home, he is here to unwind, relax, meet family ,friends, but most importantly to play golf. My reservations about his golfing activities are hit off like putting a ball into the hole. I prefer keeping quiet to being hit by the club (exaggeration permitted ). The husband keeps at his game every morning as though his next match is with none other than TigerWoods ! The son sitting in California has started worrying about his family. The storm had already hit the world, the seriousness of the situation was for all to see, and we were still waiting for the lightning to strike home before we rushed for shelter.

My neighbors are all locked up in their homes. It is difficult to believe that any housing society can be so quiet and seem so empty. We are all isolated yet united in this isolation. Through my kitchen window I hear the neighbor’s television set airing some cartoon channel. I have not seen their two cute daughters in days, but the noise of everyday life filtering through the closed window is heart warming in these strange times.I wait for evening to see how the lights come up in every window, signaling human presence.Then there was last Sunday when the Prime Minister requested ” jab deep jale ana, jab shyam dhale ana, sanket milan ka bhul na jana, mera pyar na bisrana “, ( not in this lyrical form though) and out we all came, sharp at five, on our balconies equipped with our ” sanket milan ka”…..banging plates and spoons, blowing conch shell, clapping, we felt we were keeping our part of the promise. But thanks Mr. Prime minister, not only did we thank the caregivers many of us also got a bonus glimpse of ” mere saamne wali khirki mein…” !

Meanwhile the changes that have started happening indoors are very evident. The door bell does not ring anymore. Our everyday people, the house help, dhobi, paper man, milk man, have all gone back to their respective homes. Our television set keeps blaring news and views almost all day. The wifi data finishes before evening. Binging is no more a weekend activity….sans my daughter of course, she is a diligent workaholic. We wake up early. More number of tea/ coffee gets made in a day than otherwise. I am a compulsive conversationalist, I need to talk most of the time, in contrast my husband is a man of few words, very few words indeed. His monosyllabic ” hmmm”, ” yes”, ” okay “,” nah” , are not enough. I am craving for real conversation, and he prefers to sit with his one-plus. But I don’t give up easy. I jump with enthusiasm to show him my potted petunias in fresh bloom every morning, I look outside the window at the empty streets and tell him ” dekho dekho”, I play antakshari with myself hoping he will hum a tune absentmindedly. I do endless foolishness through the day. Poor man, I totally understand , how many times can he act enthusiastic at the nothingness of everyday. Still I try to be one up on the one-plus. And then suddenly when the norwester storm and rain starts pouring down we stand at the window together, admiring rain together, seeing the same sky together after many many days.

On social media people are complaining how house work is novel to them, more novel than the virus perhaps. I on the other hand don’t mind the business of busying myself with cooking and cleaning. And to keep my mood set on right frequency I keep reading, writing and decorating. After mopping floor for a week now I have come to accept that there is more hair on the floor than on my head. I also know for sure that I like onions more on my plate than on the chopping board. I don’t have the heart to tell my daughter that Maggie packets at home will soon finish and dal- chawal is the most sumptuous meal that will be served in the coming days. I realize that my husband though a man of few words is a very popular individual on social media. How else do I justify his fifteen what’s app groups and the endless stream of videos and messages on them. But alas, his concentration is disturbed twice a day, when he volunteers to do the dishes. Much to my delight I have discovered this hidden talent of the man, he washes dishes the best in the family. Every time I pick up the broom stick the husband says it is quite unnecessary. He thinks the house is clean, he thinks the house can’t get dirty on its own. He doesn’t know that I have a special X-ray vision glasses with which I can see every spec of dust, every tea stain, all the germs lying on the floor. Secretly I also wish I could see that invisible virus and beat the living life out of it with my broom.

Between all these intense WFH days ..I too work. I work at home. I completely forget my own space and pace of life. I am too content to have my people under the same roof. I miss my son at home. I worry for him. I know he is safe and is working from home and working at home…in another city, another country, far from me. To have the daughter and the father of the daughter at home in this time of isolation fills me with gratitude. These days are not about how well we wash our dishes or how we ration food, it is not about working or getting bored, it is about relearning to respect life as the most precious gift. While we wait let us stay busy being safe.