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Tags: Essay

By Abhirami Rao

/ Coping /

to deal with and attempt to overcome problems and difficulties

june 7

There’s clattering in the kitchen. I hesitantly look up from my phone. There’s more noise. I close my eyes and let out an annoyed sigh, aggression simmering in my system, knowing what was about to come next.

‘Kanna! Where’s the dal?’

Dads are a whole different species, I believe. You’d think that for someone who once headed an entire IT division, seeing what was right in front of them wouldn’t be so hard. I remain silent, scrolling through the true trashcan-on-fire that Twitter sometimes is.

‘KANNA’

I huff, flip my hair for dramatic effect, and stomp my way to the kitchen. My presence lasts exactly five seconds as I hand him the dal and bang the cupboard door on my way out. Months before turning twenty-one, this is not really how I had planned on it going. Apparently, neither had the world, or my dad.

It is close to what being on autopilot would seem like, if machines could think (how far away is that reality though?)

The initial lockdown was a welcome break for a tired final year student. Not that it encouraged me to complete my final assignments any quicker, or even attempt to. A couple of weeks passed. I set myself into focus mode. I worked on identifying time-sensitive pieces of journalism and reaching out to my contacts. When I say I thrived the first couple of weeks during lockdown, I truly mean it. I do not know how I functioned well enough to keep myself going. I thought to myself, ‘I guess you can handle stress well.’

‘Kanna, where is the-

ARRRGH.

june 19

I’m up late. Of course, there’s no reason to be up at all.

I absent-mindedly dip paint in the, now-green water and attempt to paint a flower. Nicki Minhaj’s Starships blare through my headphones. Not something I would have chosen on my own, but I’m letting Spotify take charge (of my playlist, obviously. I will stubbornly get through two ads and whine about it than pay for premium). I interrupt myself to take in my artistic abilities.

A flower, if 007 was an octopus with a part-time Broadway gig. I flick the paint brush aside and let the stupid flower dry.

I pick up my phone which now reads 2:36 a.m. I look around my room. Clothes recklessly thrown over the bed, books half-read and abandoned on the table, my bag still filled with files from the last day in college, and the stack of newspapers I’d kept aside for ‘extra reading.’

I am inching towards twenty-one and it feels like an elaborate prank. Who thought making me an adult was a good idea?

june 27

There’s a ghostly silence around. The kind familiar to the nocturnally charged, but otherwise odd at 10pm.

I’m used to chaos. After all, most of my days were tailored for it. A smattering of classes, events to dash to seconds before it started, writing in frustrating and dizzying bouts, and talking aloud to myself in the guise of a talk-show host. Pre-lockdown me was a stranger to quiet moments, albeit in the fleeting moments when I looked out of the auto and not at my phone.

It’s been three months and three days since the lockdown was announced. A gaping pause accelerated by passing days and now isolation’s an omnipresent acquaintance. Today was a relatively welcoming break from three weeks of agonising and overthinking. I downloaded Subway Surfer again, because why not? Day-dreaming’s back on the to-do list as well.

The world around looms in lonelier chaos. Every day is a reminder to be grateful for our comforts and the silence we get to process it in. It is inevitable that this lockdown will go on for at least another month. Sigh, I should really go to sleep.

Actually, I think I’m going to go hug my mother first.

july 3

I have taken to early morning walks now. I will now also assume I am a changed woman, thank you.

There’s a corona-warning puppet in the middle of the main road. I walk past it every day. Sometimes, I sit at the bus stop near the metro station. I’ve never seen the roads this calm. There are barricades everywhere and vehicles parked on the roads. Everyone’s walking in whatever direction and pattern they please. I suppose that’s not something we ever get to do — choose where we go and how we go.

Walking has been an exercise in clarity more than fitness. The more anxious I am, the faster the train runs in my head, and the more a walk turns into a jog. It has comparatively reduced stress and makes my breakdowns a little easier to deal with. At least I’m working through these thoughts instead of filing them away, right?

july 10

The bougainvillea have bloomed in lines of pink, white and peach.

“Go slow” and “No U Turn” tease an uncertain heartbeat in my ears. A bike or two drive by, heads turning to see those who dare to venture out. I noticed all the traffic lights were yellow now. The countdown clock hovers a sober line of sunset yellow. They blink nervously, reflecting the nervous eyes above masks, drifting uneasily from side to side.

The same hues of warmth and sunshine nudge me to proceed with caution. A blank slate ahead of me, washed so lightly that there are still white marks from before. I remove my earphones and shove the tangled mess into my pockets.

I hear birds twerp-twerp a good morning to the skies. Enthusiastic uncles walk and gossip in groups. A cat stares at me with a keen challenge in its eyes.

No conversations in my mind, no music to prompt dance moves, no increase in my pace.

For the first time in months I breathe silence.