When Prime Minister Narendra Modi, on 25 March 2020 announced a nationwide lockdown, not only did I receive his official directives with civil obedience, but with all the willingness that my privileged self could muster rather than afford.
The hotelier in me was affected by the disruption of Manali’s peak season, but my instinctual literati rose to the occasion ever so enthusiastically. Not necessarily because this initial phasing of quarantine required all citizens to stay put at home, but because staying at home was the latest spelling of a responsible (and privileged) citizen. What better a feeling could there be for a literary enthusiast than gaining validation by simply indulging in uninterrupted hours of devouring written content in the sanitised confines of their velvety South Delhi cocoon?
Stirred by the initial paranoia, I made little delay in sending off my non-residential staff to commence their quarantine. No sooner had they set off in their homebound directions than I pulled up my sleeves to brandish the broomstick and wield a phenol-soaked mopping pole. I was ready to seize every corner of the confines that I inhabit and by default, infest. Being exempted from my usual routine of work meetings, photo school and shooting practice meant that I had all the time to devote myself to the daily rituals of domestic upkeep.
Consciously appreciative for house help as I am, I also realised the extent to which most of us downplay the art of self-reliance for the sake of exaggerating our futile priorities. In other words, diverting my scroll time on social media towards a fruitful hour of dusting and sweeping, my space left me feeling more self-sufficient than the standard reclining browser of Instagram. Although my family’s apartment lies suspended on the building’s first floor, I strangely felt closer to Earth upon wiping off dust of specs, only to see them resettle a few moments later.
At this point I must add that had it not been for the assistance provided by my residential care-taking staff, my newly established ritual of cleaning up would have been more drudgery than therapeutic exercise. However, times were going to get slightly more interesting. A few days into the lockdown and my man on a Friday met with an accidental fall while walking my pet — a Labrador Retriever. The tarmac upon which he had landed scraped parts of his hands and feet, and it was medically prudent for him to abstain from cooking and performing his routine chores for a few days. Where I would have merely accorded my sympathies, I was now scrubbing kitchenware and flipping pancakes and sautéing veggies for the two of us. In these unprecedented times, my foaming the sink in my track suit on a weekday made an unusual sight indeed. I didn’t mind the comic relief that my brief utility delivered to him, and he was back on his toes just when I was getting used to my role as a full-time housekeeper and part-time reader.
I had devoutly clanked plates, clapped and lit candles from my balcony with the rest of the nation as we entered several extensions of the lockdown. Daily meditation and home-based workout regimens seemed all the more important to maintain one’s sanity, as the layperson was coming to sense how far the end of the tunnel really was, let alone ascertain whether or not it had any light.
With bleak prospects for a homeward journey, I busied myself with the most efficient pace of reading that I have ever managed to attain thus far. I finished reading the entire stack of books that I had rushed to procure from Full Circle a day before the lockdown. Netflix seemed a bit more mundane through every passing day, and trips for my regular medical check-ups and groceries sufficed less each time. From breakfast news to prime-time news, headlines rarely spared the alarming rise in Covid-19 cases, and justly so.
Then came the agony of migrant workers. A feeling of helplessness eclipsed over my erstwhile gusto, for my relief contributions were limited to the PM-CARES fund. The only dwindling figures were those of my current bank account. By now, the peak season for Manali’s tourism was a confirmed washout. Fifty days into the lockdown and counting, my enthusiastic fizz began to get a bit lackadaisical.
Then one fine day, my online petition to go back home was granted. The positive cases in its neighbouring areas had turned my village into a red zone as well. My juxtaposition from paused urbanity to a resumption of rural privilege spares me the majoritarian agony of stifled spaces and displacements that many of my fellow citizens endure. Out here, there are no daily chores that could momentarily bandage a festering existentialist dread. However, in this I am not alone. The palatial façade of my ancestral home managed to only hold up so long before revealing the lacuna that was engulfing its bejewelled yet derelict souls.
The author is a freelance photographer, independent hotelier and Editor-in-Chief of Rajputana Collective.
