SELF-ISOLATION BANTER – 4

They added twenty more days to the woes that have most dreadfully accumulated past twenty-one -days in self-isolation as the corona virus revengeful tentacles seem not loosened its grip over millions. Its aftermath scattered thousands finding themselves indisposed; I believe many were inching towards the final resting places. 

‘The extension is not unexpected,’ I said to my son, who sounded confused, too young, to handle the freakish lockdown captivity. He ran about letting out restless reactions: a weekday’s stubble on the chin, his bathing time shifted much later than noon-time was some of my metal jottings. 

The crises we are thrown in, I need to care about a few parental responsibilities valid at these times. They aren’t financial; it isn’t somatic either, but something higher, something devotional – those dutiful tugs that pulsate at my core and has become even more ardent after my wife’s death.

It’s a sort of self-talk I allot for myself every day, ‘I have to care for my children, although big and settled, now busy rearing their kids, but I fear to imagine that they shouldn’t, if the gravest situation arises, have to stare into space where they feel the loss of their parents. Not active for them anymore.’

A constant bang of reminder forewarns me, ‘you need to be strong for your children,’ sets me off on a wishful spur, ‘let me stay fit physically and emotionally, once my wellness in order, other fine feather factors helpfully fall into place.’

Besides meditation, breathing exercises, I also cling to a self-restrained life-style. There is one exciting measure which I sum up as phenomenal, a magical ritual I turn to every day: the tradition of reading. Like an army drill, my habit has a rhythm and swiftness and urgency. It’s a discerning regimen I had inherited from my father – who refuses to go away as my teacher for life, who but departed, well ahead of his age, three decades ago. He was fifty-six then.