I have been cooped up in my home for about 50 days which I know is going to prolong and swallow me whole in uncertainty.
All the plans I had laid are kaput and I have become an insect like the billions of cockroaches in the world who forever fearing the shoe or the smack from a broom of some human has learnt to live in the shadows, making itself invulnerable to most of its problems. I have made myself quite comfortable in my room where I spend my days quietly reading my books and staring quietly onto the road from my balcony, trying to lick off the summer heat, which permeates on my body like a vulture hanging on to the morbid meat, with healthy doses of showers. I watch the people walking on the road with dupattas, kerchiefs and masks, bearing the heat, which remains the only proof, in corroboration with the wilting plants, of the summer that has descended where even children are scared to venture out. The balcony brings forth memories of bygone summers where my father used to sleep at night guarding our neighbor’s house against the thieves when they were away or of my cousin making me pretend spectacles with the fronds of the coconut tree and dug deep watches with his teeth around my tender wrists. It instils nostalgia in my heart for a place far away where I still practice such trivialities and freedom and the same nostalgia tugged away on my heart at that place far away when I thought about the comfort of my home.
In this course of time, I have read about 9 books and have seen about 40 movies and they have beguiled me into their worlds, making me think for an instance not just about me, my family, my friends, my people but to think about characters that have no impact on my life and weep in joy or smile bitterly over their many triumphs and tribulations which seem unearthly or real in accordance to the meditation of my mind and to which it lays soothed by the noises, silences, music in the movies and by the ruffle of pages and the characters that leave a parasite to suck on this host’s lovelorn mind.