Karo na, Karo na, Karo na

If you just let out a piercing scream with appropriate expletives about “Not another article about Coronavirus!”, having recently acquired your WhatsApp PhD in epidemiology with specialization in how to flatten the curve—please fear not.  This piece is not meant to have you go stark raving mad with thoughts about never ever leaving your home again, with the ceiling caving in, the walls closing and you wondering whether you are in a real world version of “Inception” or just having had too much to drink (the latter is unlikely, as millions of thirsty tipplers with lonely bars will attest to).  No, this piece is not about how R0 (shame on you, by now you should know it’s pronounced as R-naught), testing %, case fatality rate etc.  This piece is about recognizing the Covid Warriors who are fighting the battle not in hospital and ER rooms, but inside the home.  Specifically, about the Indian Warrior Woman, often referred to as mom, wife, the beast and other such monikers.

For the lady of the home, March 23 will go down in history as the day a virtual bomb exploded in her life, forever altering it and changing the course of her destiny.  As it is, panic grips the country whenever the PM tweets about addressing the nation.  Many immediately rush to withdraw as much cash as they can, with the scars of demonetization still fresh.  Others scramble to tank up their vehicles, wondering whether fuel rates will double or triple with the levy of some new tax.  The self-actualised ones turn philosophical and begin to contemplate their place in the universe.  But few expected how much Lockdown 1.0, followed expectedly by 2.0 and the most recent 3.0 would impact their lives.  The Ides of March had truly arrived, perhaps a week late by Western standards but perfectly normal as per Indian Standard Time, where a few days here and there are immaterial in the overall march of time (pun unintended). “BM” (before March) and “PM” (post March just to clarify, this writer is apolitical) became the new nomenclatures in time measurement for the Warrior Women.

BM, the week had a serendipitous predictability.  All ladies are working women, the only difference being that some leave the house for work, while others take care of the home (the latter, as all would agree, is infinitely more challenging).  Those leaving the home would suffer the Monday Blues, in sync with spouses and kids forced to leave their domestic shelter after a weekend of junk food and streaming video.  On the contrary, those staying at home would breathe a sigh of relief, with their world returned to them and their personal space vacated by the weekend infiltrators.  The maid would be welcomed with fraternal kindness, to take over the home and in the typical Indian English phrase, “do the needful”.  There would be time to send and receive jokes, indulge in spouse-bashing, complain about the kids, gossip about the neighbour, scold the maid for not cleaning the corners, haggle with the vegetable vendor and, all in all, perform the role of the memsahib to perfection. 

The routine, PM, is slightly different.  No one leaves the home anymore.  The “working from home” spouse pretends to be busier than usual, and expects to be the centre of attention, with the home expected to operate as per his schedule. The “learning from home” kids, after the initial excitement of seeing their friends online, sullenly slink to their laptops, alert to any opportunity to complain to mom about audio and video problems.  The home seems to have exponentially increased in size, when seen from the perspective of mop and pail.  The kitchen, once a theatre for experimentation and innovation, is now akin to a solitary confinement cell, where time must be served in unending drudgery of cut, peel, fry, clean and start all over again. The hum of the washing machine, once soothing and soporific, now leads to visualisations of having to first dry the damned stuff, and then (Oh God!) to iron the unending pile.  Cosmetics have been relegated to the back of the dressing table, replaced by gloves and masks.  Party dresses gather dust, untouched in weeks by human hands.  Mascara and nail polish have been replaced by dark circles and blotchy hands.  And let’s not venture into waxing (or the lack thereof), for that would become a hirsute tale by itself.  PM, the world has changed inexorably and the new normal is really an oxymoron—new yes, normal no.  And that’s why we must recognize these Warrior Women, no less in valour than Rani Laxmibai herself.  They have redefined multi-tasking—mom, wife, maid, cook, dhobi—all rolled into one.  They are the living trinity of creation, manifestation and destruction, demonstrating 24/7 what this really means as they shepherd their flock.  They carry on, relentless and unflinching, the occasional yawn the only hint of, beneath the façade, how exhausted they really are. That’s why we, the other half (not the better one), must pause, reflect and say with gentle kindness, “Dear, itna bhi mat karo na”.