I\’m a Fly on the Wall during Lockdown (Part IV) . . .
Day 83 of Covid-19 quarantine. The sun gleams on my glassy back, the small dark garnet of my eye in its silver socket twitches as I flit from house to house. Slowly swinging myself on a whisker, I balance my little body on the ledge of a window as I peer inside.
* * * * *
Meena rolls down the window of her Camry and breathes in the fresh sun-warmed summer air. She closes her eyes briefly and remembers how she’d once breathed in all the strange thrilling scents of this new country: lavender bubblebath, fresh-cut grass, a cloud of masculine cologne in an elevator.
Once I believed America was a great country, with liberty and justice for all. The wretched thought crawls into her brain like a fat worm after rain.
It is Monday morning, and Meena is driving to a medical appointment. She switches on the radio to distract herself from thoughts that stir in her like dead leaves.
I\’m a Fly on the Wall during Lockdown (Part III) . . .
Day 74 of Covid-19 quarantine. The sun gleams on my glassy back, the small dark garnet of my eye in its silver socket twitches as I flit from house to house. Slowly swinging myself on a whisker, I balance my little body on the ledge of a window as I peer inside.
* * * * *
A lock of hair catches on her dry lips and she shoves it out of the way before rolling over and burrowing back into her duvet. Even before Pooja’s eyes open she can sense that Mohit is awake. The sound of his impatient voice floats from the kitchen where’s he’s making a business call and echoes off the walls of the broom closet. She’s been falling asleep in the overcrowded cupboard beneath the stairs almost every night, waking up cramped and tired in the tiny space.
I\’m a Fly on the Wall during Lockdown (Part II) . . .
Day 63 of Covid-19 quarantine. The sun gleams on my glassy back, the small dark garnet of my eye in its silver socket twitches as I flit from house to house. Slowly swinging myself on a whisker, I balance my little body on the ledge of a window as I peer inside.
* * * * * *
There is a glass cup on the side table in the office, a half-finished bottle of red wine beside the table. A pack of cigarettes calls to Vinay from the shelf; he hesitates but doesn’t take them. He glances at his wristwatch for the fifth time in fifteen minutes. It is 10 p.m., PST. It is the right time to call her. It will be 9:30 a.m. Indian Standard Time.
Carefully, resolutely, he punches in the number and waits for her to pick up the phone. Once the pleasantries are dispensed with, his mother wants to know when she’s going to see him.
I\’m a Fly on the Wall during Lockdown . . .
Day 48 of Covid-19 quarantine. The sun gleams on my glassy back, the small dark garnet of my eye in its silver socket twitches as I flit from house to house. Slowly swinging myself on a whisker, I balance my little body on the ledge of a window as I peer inside.
* * * * * *
“Arjun, go get Charlie. Let’s go for a walk,” Usha calls out to her son. It’s her only thirty-minute break between virtual meetings. She ties a blue surgical mask on her face, then helps Arjun with his. Charlie scampers ahead, smelling and scratching at the fresh spring grass. Arjun tugs Charlie’s leash as Charlie spies a fat squirrel and tries hard to turn Arjun around in the opposite direction.
Did I Cause The Pandemic?
For all of January, I kept telling everyone who would listen—my silent husband or my girlfriends who would give me half a second to speak and only because they’d paused to take a long slurp of the last bottle of Bordeaux wine from Marchesi di Barolo vineyards culled from the hostess’ most recent trip to Italy. Half a second, mind you, because I’d usually be surrounded by a dozen garrulous Indian girlfriends who’d think nothing of jumping in and interrupting me in mid-flow.
“Tsk, tsk,” I’d fume silently. None of my American girlfriends behave like this. They listen politely, courteously waiting their turn to talk.
The Positive Place: Three weeks into Quarantine
Thirty-two days into the pandemic, and I’m homesick for my frothy macchiato coffee latte. For my favorite barista—a pierced, tattooed young man with a military haircut, and the build of a Navy seal. For movies at my preferred theater in Livermore and how I would slump down in my seat with my buttered popcorn and a glass of Riva Ranch. I flick channels on the T.V. remote to get a glimpse of other people’s worlds to soothe my own. The over walked dog twitches next to me on the well-worn burnt orange sofa.
Last week, the adrenalin kept me going but now the harsh reality sets in. The last package of ground chicken is defrosting on the kitchen counter downstairs. We will need haircuts. Netflix is not coming on. Oh God, I think. I’m trapped in this house without a means to watch the last episode of Tiger King. My frantic gaze falls on the 2020 wall calendar with the events of April still not crossed out—the violin recital for my nephew, the parent-teacher meeting at my daughter’s school, my cousin’s wedding in Cabo, Mexico.
News from the trenches: A week of coronavirus isolation
March 16
After a blast of cheery emails and messages on WhatsApp, Twitter, FB, Instagram, and Tumblr on how many people have recovered from coronavirus, what meditation apps to download, where to buy hand sanitizer, and where not to go for empty shelves of toilet paper rolls, a short simple notification shows up on Nextdoor:
“I can’t stop eating!”
Six days later, and the post is still trending. I want to hold up an emphatically guilty hand. A long-time believer in the intermittent fasting way of life, I usually have no problem fasting for sixteen hours straight. Now, I’m eating for sixteen hours straight!
Why can I not stop binging? Could I have been exposed to a mutated version??
Displaced And Out of Step . . .
The lilting music tumbles and washes over me. Is it Beethoven or Bach? I wouldn’t know, even if I tried. I’ve never been a classical music type of person. Give me Frank Sinatra or the young musician my daughter’s crazy about—Billie Ellish, I think her name is.
They play these kinds of calm, soulful tunes in these high-end spas, all soft voices and padded steps. It’s all a facade really. Just like Biden’s unexpected but salient victory in the polls last week. I voted for Bernie Sanders, but if Joe Biden gets the nomination, I’ll cast an unwilling vote for him. Not that it matters. Trump is expected to sail into office for a second term. Darn those blue-collar states again—the middle-class belt fighting against the jobs going abroad.
Going Away
All the arrangements have been made. The suitcases are stowed in the trunk of the limousine that’s come to whisk me and Daddy away for ten days. I perch on the edge of my seat, my legs pressed neatly together as I mentally scroll through my checklist.
Did you remember to pack the canary yellow outfit for the mehndi, the fuchsia lehenga for the sangeet, the organza red sari for the wedding, the gold Kanjeevaram sari for the reception?
Check.
Self Love
She peers down with squinty eyes at her weighing scale. She adjusts her pre-breakfast body—she tilts her love handles to the left, then to the right, so that the weight displayed in numbers that appears on the electronic screen will put her in a good mood. The magical number that will let her cook, clean, and teach math to her kindergarten class while floating on a fluffy, white cloud all day.
She grimaces and steps down, arms crossed across her chest, shoulders hunched. Four pounds above her normal weight since the holiday season ended. She groans as she thinks of all the celebrations still to come. Valentine’s Day, Holi, St. Patrick’s Day, Baisakhi, school graduations. At this rate, she won’t be able to fit into her size eight dresses this season or the next.