Category: Slice of Life

Unlocking Happiness in Times of Lockdown

Unlocking Happiness in Times of Lockdown

Dinner is done and the children and Husband have withdrawn to the relative cool of the bedroom. I’m done too as I put away the leftovers and wipe down the kitchen platform.

I glance at the dirty dishes piled up in the sink. We went a little overboard with the cooking tonight, I muse. Dinner was definitely worth it but it resulted in loads of washing up. Even though everyone has done their own dishes, the sink is full.

Washing up after the night’s cooking is the Husband’s responsibility. He’s the first one to wake up each morning and handles the twin tasks of washing and disinfecting the kitchen and dining area.

I know he hates it but I’ve been resolutely turning a blind eye and deaf ear to his deep sighs. These are Covid times and like it or not, everyone needs to pitch in. I’ve become good at assigning chores and am quite enjoying my newly-discovered despotic streak.

Most days the Husband tries to clear the sink at night so he can have a peaceful morning. But tonight, spent from the constant work calls, he’s let it be.

On a whim, I decide to surprise him, even at the risk of exposing a chink in my despot’s armour. I take up the scrubber and begin to do the dishes.

H saunters by for a glass of water. Glances at my soapy hands and the pile before me and walks off. He reappears with a set of headphones, fixes them on my head, tunes them to my playlist on the mac and walks away again.

Vishal Dadlani comes on with the cheerful Kudi nu nachne de (my current favourite) and the chore suddenly seems a chore no more.

Lockdown memories aren’t going to be all bad after all. Do you have a happy #sliceoflife to share too? Tell me about it.

Leaving you with this track that continues to make me smile.

Growing Up

Growing Up

I wait outside the registration room and I watch H as he stands in the queue. He looks uncertain, but not scared. I watch as his turn comes, he signs up, picks up his ID card and walks out to me.

‘There. Done,’ he says with a grin, ‘You can go now. Or you can stay for the opening ceremony.’

I am here to drop him off for a mock UN session. We have travelled half way across the city for this annual event that brings together school children to represent various countries discussing a particular topic.

The instructions and timings are a little vague and H doesn’t know a soul here. That worries me. All through the forty-five minute drive I’ve been talking to him, explaining, cautioning, making sure he has the phone with him. Will he feel lost, lonely, scared? I wonder.

‘Don’t worry ma,’ he says reading my thoughts, ‘I’ll be fine.’ I look at him, taller than me already, in his formal suit, the ID card around his neck making him look oddly grown up, professional almost. To an outsider.

To me he’s just a 13-year-old. A goofy absentminded 13-year-old.

Unbidden, a memory comes to me, that of 6-year-old H, taking his first steps into Big School, bravely trying not to cry, walking away without a backward glance.

I look at him again. Try as I might, I see no traces of the scared 6-year-old. All I see is a young boy, chattering away excitedly. ‘I wish they’d have given me a more important country to represent. Philippines is just so sidey. China would have been good or the US or even India,’ he complains, ‘Next time we’ll register earlier.’

Nope, no traces of the six-year-old.

With an effort I make myself separate the two images.

‘Oh boy!’ he exclaims examining the programme for the day, ‘they have Breakfast after the Opening Ceremony. Last year I had three glasses of hot chocolate. I hope they have it this time too.’ The six-year-old is back again!

I can’t help but laugh, glad the younger version is still in there somewhere under the suit and the tie even as the teen tries to take over.