Free at last?

The lockdown may be over; but Covid most certainly is not

 

So, we finally have our freedom back. The second wave appears to have receded, the Covid numbers are down, the positivity rate is in single digits again, and the country is finally opening up for business. In Delhi, where I live, offices, shops and malls have been allowed to open (though, mystifyingly, public parks are still shut, though the danger of contracting Corona outdoors is minuscule) as have hair salons and restaurants. And like prisoners who have been cooped up inside four walls for too long, all of us have rushed out to enjoy our first taste of freedom.

 

And while I am as delighted as the next person about the prospect of finally being let out of my house, my first reaction to pictures of crowds at marketplaces and malls is to mutter to myself, “Hey guys, steady on!” 

 

Yes, Covid cases have come down sharply but surely you know that the virus is not done with us just yet. It is lurking in the shadows, waiting for another super-spreader event to cast its tentacles around us yet again, and send us crashing into the much-speculated-upon third wave. And then, we will back to looking desperately for hospital beds, putting out social media calls for oxygen cylinders, and mourning our dead even as we struggle to find room to cremate them with dignity.

 

If we don’t want to go back to those bad old days, we are simply going to have exercise our discretion and handle our new-found freedoms with responsibility. So, what does a judicious use of our freedom entail? What are the dos and don’ts we should adhere to, so that we avoid a third wave?

 

Well, here are some pointers:

 

·      Every time you think of stepping out of your house, ask yourself this simple question: is this trip really necessary? If the answer is yes (you are stepping out to make an essential purchase, for instance, or visit a doctor or call on a family member), then go ahead. But if your answer to this question is no, then it might be a good idea to just stay at home.

·      Choose your outings carefully. It’s okay to drop into a store at off-peak times to indulge in a bit of retail therapy, but wandering through a jampacked mall is a bad idea. It’s okay to visit a friend’s house for a small dinner party with a maximum of ten guests, but attending a wedding with a hundred people in attendance is fraught with risk. 

·      Keep your mask on at all times when you leave the house. It doesn’t matter if you have already been infected with Covid or that you have had both your shots of the vaccine. The only thing we know about Covid is that nobody really knows anything for sure. So, having had the disease or the vaccine is not necessarily a sure-shot defence against the virus. The only thing that we know works for sure is the mask. So, wear one whenever you are in public (or even better, wear two!)

·      Even though the lockdown is over, it still makes sense to keep your social bubble small. The fewer the number of people you interact with, the lesser your chances of getting infected. And remember, it is not strangers that are the greatest risk to you when it comes to getting Covid. It is always more likely that a trusted member of your inner circle will end up infecting you, because it is only with them that you let your guard down.

·      By now we know that infected surfaces are not the greatest risk to us; it is the air we breathe that hosts the contagion. So, as far as possible, avoid congregrating in small, enclosed spaces – especially if they are air-conditioned and lack cross-ventilation – where you end up breathing each other’s air. If you are going to spend time with other people, it’s best to do so in open spaces, where the risk of infection is far less. And God, and the Delhi government willing, hopefully we will be able to do that soon.

The middle ages

Sometimes it is better to embrace the ageing process rather than fight it endlessly

 

If you have watched Mare of Easttown (and if you haven’t, well, what are you waiting for?) you will know that Kate Winslet has deglamorized herself completely to play the detective in the title. She barely wears any make-up, her hair looks as if it hasn’t seen a brush in days, her facial warts are completely visible, and her fashion sense doesn’t seem to extend beyond plaid shirts and hoodies (though she does clean up nicely for the occasional date).

 

Winslet says she was determined to portray a middle-aged woman as they really exist in real life – with broadening middles, less than luminescent complexions, and wrinkles that hint at a life lived fully. So much so that when the director of the show offered to edit her ‘bulgy’ bits in a sex scene, Winslet refused to let him do so. That was her body in her mid 40s. And she wasn’t going to pretend it was any different. 

 

The result is an authentic portrait of a woman in middle age: a little battered around the edges, a wee bit worse for wear, but magnificent in her authenticity. 

 

I couldn’t help but think of Winslet and Mare of Easttown as I sat through the Friends Reunion, laughing and crying in equal measure. Having grown up with Friends, I feel a sense of kinship with the leading ladies of the show. And watching them age from season one to season ten was one way of making peace with my own ageing process as I went from my 20s to my 30s and then my 40s. 

 

But the Reunion show came as a bit of jolt. Here were Rachel, Monica and Pheobe in their 50s, each of them presenting a different attitude to ageing. Lisa Kudrow appeared to have embraced the passage of time, making peace with the inevitable wrinkles around her eyes, mouth and neck. In contrast, Jennifer Aniston looked as if she had been frozen in her mid-30s. There were the odd signs of ageing – the cheeks were a little fuller, the jaw just a tad less defined – but other than that she still looked like the Rachel we remembered from the last season of Friends. 

 

And then, there was Courtney Cox. Except that she was less Monica Geller and more a cautionary tale of the dangers of too much Botox and way too many fillers. Her forehead was a frozen field, her cheeks were far too plump, and her lips looked almost unnatural in their fullness. It was hard to reconcile that face with the fresh-faced beauty that we had met and loved in Friends. And it was even harder not to wish that she had left her face well alone – or, at least, known when to stop. 

 

Gazing at Cox’s altered visage made me appreciate Sarah Jessica Parker more than I have ever done since the days of Sex And The City. In her latest TV series, Divorce, Parker looks like the best version of her middle-aged self. There is no attempt to hide the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, her forehead crinkles up with disgust and anger ever so often, and her neck is lined like that of any other 50-something. But she still looks luminous, with sparkling eyes, springy hair, and a waistline that could give teenagers a run for their money. 

 

Of course, all these women have all the money, time, dermatologists and cosmetic surgeons in the world available to them, as they negotiate their middle ages in their own chosen way. But what about the rest of us, who barely have time (or frankly, the inclination) to exercise every day, to eat healthy at every meal, and spend every night rubbing anti-wrinkle cream into our faces and necks (never forget the neck!)?

 

Well, I guess we will just have to bid goodbye to our inner Monicas and Rachels and embrace the Pheobe within each of us. Let the wrinkles dance across our faces, telling the story of our tears and laughter. Let our waistlines expand in tribute to how much life we have tasted.

 

And let’s embrace our years instead of fighting to hide the marks they have left on us.

Prose and cons

Seeking solace in books, as the pandemic goes on and on…

 

As regular readers of this column will already know, the one thing that has kept me going through the Covid 19 pandemic has been reading. I have sought refuge in old favourites, books that are so familiar that sinking into them again feels akin to getting a warm hug from an old friend. I have expanded my horizons by trying out new authors, who came recommended by fellow book lovers, with somewhat mixed results. I have tried to lose myself in the alternate universes of fictional works in an attempt to escape from a reality that is hard to live with. I have attempted to improve myself by reading worthy non-fiction tomes, using the vast stretches of me-time now available to me.

 

But whatever the genre, whoever the author, however good or bad the book, it is reading that has sustained me through this difficult time. In case that works for you as well, here is a short list of recommendations based on what I have been reading these past few months.

 

The Margot Affair by Sanae Lemoine

 

The protagonist of this novel is 17-year-old Margot Louve, the love child of an unconventional actress and the French culture minister. Her father has a wife and other children and has never publicly acknowledged Margot, though he comes by to visit her often. Frustrated by this lack of public recognition, Margot confides the secret of her parentage to a sympathetic journalist. And that small ripple in the pond of her life sets off ramifications that Margot could never have imagined, creating a storm that nearly destroys everything in its path.

 

The Lying Life of Adults by Elena Ferrante

 

This isn’t in the league of the Neapolitan Quartet with which Ferrante found international fame, though it is set in roughly the same world. The story is told from the perspective of the adolescent Giovanna, whose whole world comes crashing down when she overhears her father tell her mother that he is afraid his daughter is turning into his sister, Vittoria, whose vulgarity her father has long hated. This pushes Giovanna into making contact with the aunt she has never met, to figure out what they have in common, a decision that changes both her life and that of her parents.

 

The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman

 

This is very much an English murder mystery in the style of Agatha Christie. But instead of being set in a bucolic English village or a stately home, it is set in a retirement community of those 65 and above. The Thursday Murder Club has four members who meet once a week to discuss old cases that the police have failed to solve. But then murder comes calling within their own circle, and they have a brand new case to focus on, if only they can inveigle their way into the official investigation – which, of course, they do. 

 

Win by Harlan Coben 

 

Fans of Coben will know Win – or, to use his full name, Windsor Horne Lockwood III – from the Myron Bolitar series. But here, the sidekick – if Win could ever be described as that – is the main protagonist. No, not so much the hero, as the anti-hero, whose flaws make him a more compelling character than a regular leading man could ever be. The book begins with the discovery of a body in a slightly creepy apartment in New York; a body that we soon discover has links with Win’s past. How far do those links go? Well, you will have to read to find out; I am posting no spoilers here.

 

One Two Three Four; The Beatles in Time by Craig Brown

 

Is there anything left to say about the Beatles? You would think not but Craig Brown, the celebrated British writer and humorist, manages to find new angles and tell parts of the story in anecdotes that may surprise even dedicated Beatles watchers. What was it like to be Ringo? Was Paul as shrewd as they say? Was George really so money minded? Was John an insensitive jerk? What about Jimmy Nicol, the short-lived Fifth Beatle, who temporarily replaced Ringo, only to see his life fall apart? It’s a fun read mixing the familiar with the surprising. 

 

The bell tolls...

Death comes calling in almost every household as Covid ravages our nation

 

On Monday, 3 May, Delhi recorded 448 deaths from Covid. One of them was my brother-in-law.

 

When my sister made a group video call to her daughters and me late at night, worried that my brother-in-law was having trouble breathing, despite being on an oxygen concentrator, none of us realized that the end was only an hour or so away. My brother-in-law was struggling for breath, but he was still well enough to speak. We tried to rally him around, encouraging him to do prone breathing. The nurse in attendance gave him his prescribed injections and set up a saline drip.

 

We thought he was feeling better when he got up and – assisted by the nurse and my sister – went to the loo. But the moment he came back and lay down on the bed again, he simply stopped breathing. We realized that only when we heard my sister’s panicked cries. The nurse tried to do CPR, but to no avail. The oximeter went blank, and he was gone. All we were left with were my sister’s heartbreaking sobs of anguish and disbelief.

 

We stayed on the call with her for another couple of hours, trying to comfort her as best we could. But what comfort can you offer a wife who has seen her husband pass away in front of her eyes? 

 

There are no words.

 

And in Covid times, there are no hugs either. There is no comforting embrace to offer. There is no shoulder for the bereaved to cry on. There is no presence of family to provide some solace and balm. 

 

In the absence of this, there is just a piercing loneliness. You are alone with your grief, alone with your thoughts, alone with your regrets, alone with your memories. 

 

There may be other people at the end of a video call, but to all intents and purposes, you are alone. 

But that is the nature of death in the times of Covid. You die alone, those that are left behind mourn alone, and you then begin the slow process of recovery all on your own. I can’t even begin to grapple with the unfathomable sorrow of it all. 

 

Not that my family is alone in suffering this loss. Thousands of families across the country are dealing with bereavement as Corona deaths mount with every passing day. But as we count our dead, we must not forget that those souls who have left us are not just statistics that tell us the story of how this pandemic has ravaged our country. Each of these numbers is a person who meant the world to those who loved him; who was, in fact, somebody’s entire world. 

 

My sister’s entire world, for instance, revolved around her husband. In recent years, as his health declined, she became his primary caregiver, monitoring his sugar levels and blood pressure with a zeal that would do any professional nurse proud. Her day was measured by the doses of medicines she would dole out to him. Her mission every day was to cook something that would tempt his appetite even a little. And once he went down with Covid, she monitored his oxygen levels with a hawk eye, adjusting the oxygen concentrator ever so often.

 

But her best efforts were not good enough in the face of the implacable march of this deadly disease. And now she has been left alone to mourn, even as she tries to recover from her own Covid infection. 

 

My brother-in-law’s last moments, which we witnessed on that video call, haunt all of us. There is a sense of abject helplessness, that we could do nothing to help him take just another breath, and then another and another… There is the horror of seeing someone you love pass away in front of your eyes, and not being able to even reach out and hug them close in their last moments.

 

But I hope in time that we will not remember him, Satish Kumar Bharadwaj, by the manner of his passing, but by the way he lived his life. That we will remember his unconditional love for his wife and daughters, we will celebrate his unquenchable zest for life, and we will keep the memory of his joyful spirit alive in our hearts.

 

Covid comes home

So, how does one deal with this feeling of impending doom?

With every passing week, Covid comes closer and closer home. First, it was colleagues who were testing positive. Next I heard of some close friends getting infected. Then, there was news of my neighbors falling ill. And now Corona has struck within my own family. 

My cousin and her husband, both doctors, tested positive — even after they had received both doses of the vaccine — though, thankfully, their symptoms are mild. Another cousin contracted Corona as well, along with members of her extended joint family, including her infant son. And as I write this, my aunt — who is in her 80s and bedridden — is showing symptoms though her test results are not in as yet.

I am, of course, far from unique in this. Sadly, this is the situation in every second family, as Covid cases increase exponentially across the country. In fact, such is the prevalence of infection that it seems as if it is only a matter of time before Corona invades our bodies as well. As a consequence, a sense of weary inevitability has overtaken us all, bringing with it both depression and dejection in equal measure. 

So, how does one deal with this feeling of impending doom? How does one cope with rising anxiety levels? And how best to rise above the general mood of pessimism and strive for a little cheer in these testing times?

Well, the first thing to do is stop doom scrolling. I know, I know, I am a fine one to talk given how much time I spend on Twitter, though I justify it on the grounds that I am retweeting and amplifying Covid-related requests. But too much bad news, consumed all day, can bring down anybody’s spirits. So, it might make sense to switch off every couple of hours and do something to destress — read a book, listen to music, cook a meal, whatever works for you. 

It is a given that during times like these, your worries will tend to overwhelm you. But instead of trying to shove them away — a futile effort, at the best of times — embrace them and channel them into some positive activity. If you are worried about the health of your near and dear ones, and are too far away to look after them yourself, try and make their lives a little easier, say by organizing delivery of home-cooked meals for them. Do your bit for the community by collating information about hospitals and medicines and making it available to all. It’s not much, I accept, but every little bit helps.

If your health permits, then volunteer to help out those Covid patients in your neighborhood who are isolating alone at home and have no one to look after them. Assist them with getting medicines and groceries, set up a rota so that they have home-cooked meals three times a day, and keep their spirits up with regular phone or video calls. If working on your own seems daunting, then join an organization that is helping out, using whatever skill set you possess. If your neighborhood gurudwara is making meals for Covid patients, for instance, sign up for a couple of shifts in the langar kitchen. 

Do your bit to combat Covid disinformation in your Whatsapp groups or family circles. If you encounter vaccine hesitancy then do your best to dispel it. Do this with sensitivity and love, because everybody is scared and hurting right now. 

But in all this, don’t ignore your own physical and mental health. If the lockdown is keeping you home, get an hour of exercise in, even if it is just walking on your terrace or doing a spot if yoga or Pilates on your drawing room floor. Try and eat healthy as far as you can, but don’t beat yourself up if you cheat with some fries or ice cream once in a while. 

The key lies in finding pleasure in small things. It could be an old book, in whose pages who can rediscover happier times. It could be in a glass of wine, that helps you decompress after a hard day. Or it could be in a new Netflix show, that helps you forget your everyday cares for a while. 

Just do whatever works for you. And in time, this too shall pass. 

Summertime...

And the living is easy…

 

I can’t be the only one who felt that spring lasted for precisely one week this year. We barely had time to take in the beauty of its blossoming flowers, its cool breezes and its mellow sunshine, before the summer was upon us, with all its blazing intensity.

 

Well, never mind. Nature will do what it does, and lesser mortals like us just have to make our peace with its capriciousness. And more to the point, make the most of a season that is heralded by a whole lot of heat and dust.

 

Thankfully, though, that’s not all there is to the Indian summer. The heat may be crippling but it does have its compensations. For one thing, this is the season of mellow fruitfulness (with due apologies to Keats) in the sub-continent. The season kicks off with juicy watermelons and melons, which are just the ticket for sweaty afternoons, spent in darkened rooms. Even before you have had your fill of them, the first mangoes start arriving in the market, filling the air with their heady aroma. 

 

My childhood memories of summer inevitably involve mangoes. In our home, they were quickly unpacked, washed and dunked into a pail of icy water to cool. We then spent an interminable hour, waiting for them to be ‘ready’ to eat – or, more accurately, suck. We would squeeze the mango all around to free the pulp, then make a small incision on the top, and begin aspirating the sweet mess into our mouths. Bliss.

 

That said, the fruit I most associate with summer is not mangoes, but litchis. Mangoes are well and good, and I enjoy them immensely, but in my mind, they are merely a holding operation until litchis arrive, in all their exquisite loveliness. There is something so beautiful about the litchi, all plump and voluptuous, encased in a bright red, prickly cover which you must unpeel with the greatest care so that you don’t puncture the skin quivering with juice underneath. There is nothing to beat the sensation of popping a perfectly peeled litchi in your mouth and feeling that explosion of flavor fill your senses.

 

What nature takes away with one hand in this season, it gives back with the other. So, what we lose out in spring flowers, we gain by way of flowering Laburnums (or Amaltas, to give them their Indian name). This is the time of year when the streets and parks come alive with the bright, yellow blooms of these trees, which brighten the horizon everywhere we look. I am particularly lucky to live on a street that has a profusion of these trees, and their beauty is enough to make me actually look forward to the heat of summer.

 

This is also the season when we can finally take some time off and go on vacation. This year may be a bit tricky, what with Covid still around us and cases showing a steady uptick. But you can always book a Covid test, and assuming you and your family are negative, pack up your car and drive to the hills for a break. Or head to the nearest beach, if that’s your thing. 

 

If the thought of travel in the times of Corona leaves you cold, never mind. Just hunker down at home, draw the curtains, make yourself a cold glass of Rooh Afza or Khus Sherbet, and settle down with a good book. Summer reading is the best kind, even if you can’t do it by the edge of a pool this year. There is just something about languorous, sultry afternoons and evenings that lend themselves to some serious – and not so serious – reading. 

 

As for myself, I will be perched over my kitchen sink, making a glorious mess of eating my daily mango. I will be sipping on a cool litchi drink (until the real thing arrives) as I plough my way through my summer reading list (more on that next time). I will be wandering down my street, taking in the beauty of the laburnums while I can. And I will be dreaming of a hill holiday, where I can escape the heat of the plains for a glorious few days.

 

One year of Covid

Here’s what has kept me going these past 12 months

 

As I sit down to write this column, it is exactly one year since we first went into a Covid-induced lockdown. As anniversaries go, this one is pretty grim, mostly because the virus is still alive and well and kicking our ass. After a brief period during which cases went down – inducing hope and optimism among us all – the counts are going up every day, thanks to the various variants that are spreading rapidly among the population. 

 

But even as we struggle to see light at the end of this particular tunnel, I think it makes sense to pause and give thanks to what sustained us as we lived through a pandemic. So, here, in no particular order of importance, is a list of all that I am thankful for this past year.

 

·       My book project: If I hadn’t had a writing project to focus on, I think the enforced isolation of the past year would have driven me mad. But, as luck would have it, I was halfway through the sequel to my political thriller, Race Course Road, when Covid struck. So, I could use the time that I was sequestered at home to concentrate on finishing my book. And that’s exactly what I did, spending every afternoon hunched over my laptop, furiously writing and revising. I am happy to report that I am all done now, and my new novel will be out by the end of the year – by when, with luck, Covid will have run its course, and I can actually promote it in person rather than on Zoom. Well, here’s hoping, anyway.

 

·       My Kindle: If writing sustained one part of me, reading kept the other half stimulated. And I couldn’t have done that without my trusty Kindle during those dark months when bookshops were shut and the only way to access new releases was to download them on an e-reader. Once I was done with new titles, I fell back on my comfort reads, scouring for old titles that had kept me entertained during my school and college days. That meant everything from Enid Blyton’s Mallory Towers series (yes, really!) to some of my favourite Georgette Heyers to such classics as Nora Ephron’s Heartburn.

 

·       Mini-breaks: After many months spent in lockdown, it felt like a special treat to head out for a mini-break, even if it was to destinations that were a few hours’ drive away. Even cities like Jaipur and Agra that we tend to take for granted in normal times, took on an exotic hue in my travel-starved eyes, as we ventured forth from home after being cooped up for what felt like forever. And it didn’t seem to matter that we spent our days within the confines of our hotel; it still felt like a lucky escape to an alternate universe so that we could return refreshed to our normal, humdrum lives.

 

·       Walks in the parks: Mini-breaks are well and good, but a girl also needs something to break the tedium of the normal workday. And if that girl is lucky enough to live in Delhi, then a walk in the park is just the ticket. Over the last few months, I have marked the end of my writing time by slipping on my sneakers, pulling on my mask and heading out to one of the many parks that litter Delhi. There are about four on my list and I alternate my walks between them, varying my route every day so that I have fresh vistas to gaze on, varied flowers to smell, and different monuments to marvel at. Without that blast of fresh air to blow my workday woes away, I don’t think I could have coped. 

 

There was much else that sustained me, of course. The companionship of my husband; the love and embrace of family; the supportiveness of friends. But most of all, it was the hope that we would all see better days soon.   

 

Soap Oprah

There is no escaping Meghan and Harry – even if you have zero interest in the British royal family

 

Harry and Meghan. Or Meghan and Harry, to give them their correct billing. There really is no escaping them, is it? Even if you have zero interest in the British royal family, there is no way you can have avoided all those clips of the ‘bombshell’ Oprah tell-all that the Duke and Duchess of Sussex conducted last week – or, for that matter, the reams of commentary that followed. 

 

Having devoured it all – there is nothing I love more than a good soap opera, or should that be soap Oprah? – I now feel as if I have been transported back to the 1990s, when Harry’s mother, Princess Diana, was cast in the role that Meghan is now playing. Diana’s ‘explosive’ confessional featured on the BBC’s Panorama show and was conducted by Martin Bashir, a little-known journalist at the time. Harry and Meghan’s inquisition, on the other hand, was at the hands of Oprah Winfrey, who is arguably more famous than both of the ‘royals’ put together. 

 

But if you ignore that minor difference, the parallels come at you fast and furious. Like Princess Diana, Meghan talks about her mental health struggles, admitting that there was a phase – when she was pregnant with Archie – that she actively thought about taking her own life, such was her unhappiness within the royal world in which she felt like a trapped prisoner. Diana had complained famously that she got no support from the royal family when she married into the institution. Meghan lays the same allegation at the doors of what she calls ‘the firm’ – and then throws in the charge of racism, with the shocking admission that a senior member of the royal family had concerns about the colour of the skin of their prospective children.

 

Even the visual cues are meant to evoke memories of Diana. Like the Princess in her Panorama interview, Meghan is wearing black, her eyes are heavily rimmed with kohl, and she speaks with the same soft cadences as Diana did, as she aims missile after missile at the heart of the British royal family. There are tangible, physical reminders of Diana too, sparkling on Meghan’s wrist, where she sports the diamond bracelet that used to belong to her mother-in-law. The message is clear: Diana is part of their story, giving them both inspiration and strength to go forth on their own path.

 

In a strange way, that makes sense. In some ways, Harry and Meghan are living the life that Diana never got to experience. It is all too likely that if the Princess had lived beyond her 36 years – which is, ironically, exactly the age Harry is now – she would have ended up in America, where she was always wildly popular. There was some speculation that she would end up married to an American billionaire and would start a philanthropic career in the States. With the establishment of their Archewell Foundation, Harry and Meghan are starting down that road, though it is lined with multi-million dollar deals with the likes of Netflix and Spotify. 

 

And more importantly, perhaps, even 24 years after her tragic death Princess Diana is still a shining star in the American celebrity firmament. So evoking her name and memory is as good a way as any of sprinkling some stardust on yourself when you are out to establish yourself as A-list figures in the States. 

 

So, what is the problem exactly, you may well ask. Why do Meghan and Harry feel the need to air all their dirty family laundry in front of an audience of millions? After all, they have achieved what they set out to do. They have landed on their feet in California, living in a palatial mansion that cost around 14 million dollars, with commercial deals that ensure that they never have to worry about paying the bills. And judging by the reaction to their Oprah interview, they are much loved by the American people. 

 

And yet, when you watch Meghan and Harry opening their hearts to Oprah, you can’t help but feel that these are not happy people. They seem unable to shake off the grievances that are mooring them in the past, dwelling on the injustices heaped on them by an uncaring monarchy, instead of focusing on the bliss that surely lies in their future. And that, if you ask me, is the real tragedy.

Spring has sprung

And it’s time to make the most of it, before it dissolves into summer

Every year, as the days get longer and warmer, I make a resolution: to make the most of the short-lived Delhi spring. And short-lived it most certainly is, dissolving into summer in the blink of an eye. I often say that living in Delhi means having the heater on one week and then switching on the AC the next. So, if you are going to enjoy the nano-second that spring lasts, then you better have your to-do list ready and be quick about ticking off all the items.

First on my list this year was an item that I have been putting off for way too long: a visit to Humanyun’s Tomb. I finally managed that last evening, going the whole hog and hiring a guide to make the most of the trip. My husband and I ended up spending a few hours in the complex, exploring every monument in sight, watching the sunset and the moonrise as we walked around the sylvan grounds. There was a cool breeze blowing and spring flowers blooming, and it was possible to forget all about the pandemic and pretend that all was right with the world.

That’s the magic of the Delhi spring. For the few weeks it lasts, it makes up for the bitter indignities of winter and harsh humiliations of summer that we have live through. The trick lies in making the most of it, so that you store up enough memories to carry you through for the rest of the year.

So here, in no particular order, are just some of the things that you could try and accomplish in this brief season.

• Have a blooming good time: Quite literally, that is. This is the period when all the roundabouts and parks in the capital are heaving with magnificent spring blooms. So, if you are driving everywhere, keep your eyes peeled for the splash of colour that they provide. Better still, visit your local nursery and pick up a few pots of salvia, cineraria, fuchsia or whatever else catches your eye to brighten up your balcony, terrace, or garden.

• Travel back in time: They say that at least seven cities once flourished on the site where Delhi now stands; and each one of them has left some evidence behind. This is the best time to explore that heritage. You can do the rounds of the usual suspects: Qutub Minar, Red Fort, Purana Qila, Safdarjung’s Tomb, all of which are much less crowded these days because there aren’t any foreign tourists in the mix. Or you could go totally off the beaten track and explore the lesser-known monuments in the city, where it will be easier to socially distance from your fellow citizens.

• Parks and Recreation: This is the best time of year to visit such parks as Sunder Nursery and Lodi Gardens. Take a brisk walk around to enjoy the spring flowers, and then find a shady corner to settle down with a nice book or a picnic. But hurry, because the rest of the city will have had the same idea, and it’s the early bird who will bag the best location. 

• Eating out: If a picnic in a public area does not appeal in the time of Covid, don’t worry. There are plenty of other options for al fresco dining in the city. Choose a restaurant that does outdoor seating and enjoy the last few days of balmy sunshine. Or simply throw your last barbeque of the season, hosting your friends and family in your garden or your terrace. 

• Spread your wings: If you have done all you could in the city, then head a little further out to make the most of the decent weather. You can still squeeze in a skiing vacation in Gulmarg, making the most of the snow before it finally melts. These are the last few weeks you can vacation in Rajasthan before the heat makes it all but impossible. And this is possibly the best time to visit game sanctuaries across the country.

But don’t worry if you can’t squeeze all of this into the remaining spring days. Just do as much as you can, and store the rest away for the following year. Because if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

When the masks come off...

After socially distancing for so long, it’s going to be hard to adjust to post-pandemic life

 

Over the last year, Covid has been the one thing ruling all our lives. The months of lockdown made us hunker down at home, washing our hands and sanitizing with a certain manic energy, wiping down surfaces and rubbing doorknobs clean, as if our life depended on it. We stayed away from family and friends, socially distancing for fear of contracting and/or spreading the virus. And slipping on a mask when we left home became almost second nature to us.

 

But while all of this may have kept us safe, it also left us scared. Not just of the virus, but of our fellow human beings. Instead of seeing people as friends, family, neighbours, colleagues, or just mere acquaintances, we began regarding them as a clear and present danger. They became – in our mind – less human beings with whom we had a relationship and more disease vectors who might kill us if they got within breathing distance.

 

There was no question of hugging and kissing anyone in greeting. Even a handshake was potentially life-threatening. Instead, we went in for jocular elbow bumps while surreptitiously checking if the other person’s mask was covering both nose and mouth (spoiler alert: it hardly ever was!). 

 

But now that Covid numbers are trending down, and the pandemic seems to be on its way out, we have to find a way to reconnect with the significant humans in our life. We have to learn to share a meal, give a hug, sit in close proximity, kiss someone goodbye, without breaking into a nervous sweat or obsessing for days after that we may have, in fact, contracted Covid.

 

Speaking for myself, I am finding it incredibly hard to slip back into the rhythms of pre-pandemic life. Even at gatherings where I know that everyone has been tested in advance, I tend to keep my mask on, as a measure of abundant caution, taking if off only when I am eating or drinking. I have still to have a meal with any of my friends, even though I know that they have been religious about isolation and mask-wearing and are, therefore, no danger to me. And when I do go out to eat with my husband, I panic when a fellow guest comes up unmasked to say hello. At a rational level I know that we cannot get infected in a couple of minutes; and yet, my entire body tenses up until that person leaves the table.

 

It’s the same when I go out for a walk. I keep my mask on throughout, but even so my heart skips a beat when I pass by groups who have decided to leave theirs off, or just wear them as a jaunty chin covering. Yes, we are outdoors; yes, we are in contact only for a few seconds; yes, the Delhi Covid numbers are vanishingly low; and yet, my fear of contracting the disease persists.

 

So, what’s the solution? How do I get over my overwhelming fear of other people and go back to a modicum of normal life? 

 

Well, I guess the only way to do that is to take baby steps. Which is why I have resolved that over the next couple of weeks, I am going to gradually expand my Covid bubble. 

 

First on the cards is a quiet dinner at home with a couple of friends who have been as diligent about following the Covid rules as us – as good a way as any of easing myself back into the world of socializing without getting completely overwhelmed. Next, I am going to venture into conducting work meetings in person rather than on Zoom – masks on for the most part, but off when we dig into the obligatory coffee and cookies. And then, there’s the family reunion my sister and I have been fantasizing about for months. 

 

At some point, I guess, I will have to try and get comfortable with the idea of meeting strangers without masks as well. But those days are still far into the future. 

 

As I said, baby steps…

Missing in action

As our world shrinks to travel destinations within a few hours drive, here are some of the places I can’t wait to revisit

 

I guess it was bound to happen. After a few months of driving out to nearby resorts for mini-breaks – because flights are still a no-no in my Covid-paranoid household – we are rapidly running out of holiday destinations. We have done Jaipur, staying in not one but two of my favourite hotels. We have ventured out to Alwar, a place we had never explored before, and loved it. And of course, we have done the tried and tested Agra vacation, right under the shadow of the Taj Mahal. 

 

But now that we have exhausted the possibilities within a few hours drive from Delhi, my thoughts are inexorably turning to destinations that I can’t travel to for the foreseeable future. And the more I think about them, the more I miss them with an almost visceral twist of the gut.

 

First up on the list is London. I first discovered it in my 20s, and since then have been going there at least twice a year. As a consequence, such is my familiarity with the city that it almost seems like a second home. And yet, no matter how often I visit, London never gets old. Whether I am tramping through St James Park or trudging through Hampstead Heath; whether I am traipsing the aisles of Waitrose or Marks and Spencer; whether I am marveling at the paintings on display at the National Gallery or the Tate Modern; London never ceases to amaze and astonish with its cornucopia of delights.

 

If London is like a second home, then Bangkok is like the alternate universe in which I would like to live forever. Over the last couple of decades I have seen the city transform from a somewhat sleepy, sometimes seedy, destination into a sleek, skyscraper-strewn, shimmering capital, which attracts people from all over the world, with its world-class shopping, its amazing food (whether you eat on the streets or in Michelin-star restaurants), and its friendly people who never seem to stop smiling. Small wonder then that I can’t wait to go back.

 

As the winter fog descends on Delhi and the sun goes AWOL, my mind’s eye conjures up the white sands of Maldivian beaches, the azure-blue waters, and the clear turquoise skies of that island paradise, as I fantasize about sitting by the sea and sipping on a cocktail as I enjoy the tropical weather. I am even happy to let the humidity and sea breeze do its worst with my hair, so long as I can soak up the heat and let the warm water of the lagoon wash over me. 

 

Speaking of lagoons, how could I possibly forget the most stunning of them all? Venice! I was fortunate enough to first discover it in the depths of winter, when the tourist hordes were missing in action. I spent days wandering the near-empty calles (streets), bundled up in my overcoat and woolen cap, marveling at the architectural marvels that lay around every corner. Since then, I have been back several times, and each time La Serenissima has shown me a different facet of her undeniable beauty. I guess the streets are empty again – now because of Covid – but this time I can walk them only in my imagination.

 

Thinking of Venice leads me inexorably to other destinations in Italy, in all of which I have left behind pieces of my heart. Rome, whose magnificent monuments are a testament to the talent and ingenuity of mankind. Siena, with its cobbled streets and medieval structures that take you right back in time. San Gimignano and its dreaming spires. The shimmering waves that lap the beaches of Liguria. The stunning vistas you can feast your eyes on from the Amalfi coast. I could go on, if it wasn’t for the small matter of the lump in my throat. 

 

I don’t know when the world will have healed enough for us to venture out and explore it anew. But I do know that when that day dawns, I, for one, am going to be spoilt for choice. And I hope that you are just as lucky.

Facts about fiction

Many may try, but only some writers can actually bring a world alive in their books

 

What can I say? I am a sucker for a good, old-fashioned Regency Romance, all tightly-laced corsets, heaving bosoms, swooning/sassy heroines, and a swashbuckling rakish hero who is eventually reformed by his love of a good woman. So far, so clichéd. But what brings these somewhat hackneyed plots alive is the skill of a great writer, who can create an entire universe in which you are only too willing to suspend your disbelief, let alone your cynicism.

 

You can imagine my excitement then, when I heard that a new series called Bridgerton was being released on Netflix. Set in Regency London and populated with a multicultural cast, this was based on a series of novels by Julia Quinn, recreating what will always be – to me, at least – the world of Georgette Heyer. 

 

So, I cleared my evening and settled down for some binge-watching. But half-way through the first episode I began to experience the first stirrings of dissatisfaction. And that only grew as I ploughed through the rest of the episodes. This was nothing like the Regency romps I had loved for most of my life.

 

Never mind, I told myself. This incarnation of Bridgerton owed more to Shonda Rhimes than it did to Julia Quinn. Maybe I should go to the original and get my fix of Regency-era drama. So, I downloaded The Duke and I, the novel on which the show is based, and settled down to read it in one greedy gulp.

 

At least, that was the intention. But to be honest with you, I found it heavy going. The plot was predictable, the dialogue was clunky, and the characters lacked a certain three-dimensional depth. It had all the tropes of Heyer’s Regency Romances but none of the sparkle and wit that makes Georgette’s books both effervescent and evergreen in their appeal. 

 

Just to confirm my initial impression, I went back to re-read my well-thumbed copies of Heyer’s best work. I started off with The Devil’s Cub, and within minutes I was entranced once again by the exploits of the Marquis of Vidal and his reluctant love interest, Mary Challoner, whose courtship has the most unpropitious of beginnings (she shoots him in the arm with his own pistol!).

 

Once I had started, there was no stopping me! I seamlessly went on to re-read The Grand Sophy and Venetia. I couldn’t find my copy of Regency Buck so I downloaded it on my Kindle and read it again, chuckling anew at the exploits of Judith Taverner and the Earl of Worth. And I am now immersed in The Infamous Army, a book that Heyer set around the battle of Waterloo, and which features Lord and Lady Worth, now a staid married couple, witnessing the star-crossed romance of their brother, Charles Audley with the audacious society beauty, Lady Barbara Childe. 

 

As I slipped effortlessly back into the universe of Georgette Heyer, it occurred to me that when it comes to genres of fiction, the world is divided into Masters of Their Game and The Rest of the Field. And no matter how hard The Rest may try, they can never measure up against The Masters. 

 

In spy fiction, for instance, there is the original Master, John le Carre, who made the Cold War his own, spinning fabulous tales revolving around the twin characters of George Smiley and the sinister Soviet spy, Karla. Since then, there have been many writers who have tried to recreate that universe, but no matter how good the books, they just don’t have the same appeal as Le Carre’s oeuvre. 

 

When it comes to murder mysteries, there is no bettering P.D. James. There is no better exemplar of British humour that P.G. Wodehouse. Nobody examines and elucidates the inner life of women better than Elena Ferrante. And nobody can write a cheery bonkbuster better than Jilly Cooper.

 

Part of their mastery lies in the fact that they make it all look so easy. It’s only when you see lesser writers trying to recreate their magic that you realize just how difficult it actually is. And that makes you appreciate their genius even more.