Covid Events 2021

We’re unlocking ourselves; senior classes and colleges have tentatively opened, Board-examinations have been slotted for May 2021, more than a month later than the usual times, but we’re still teaching on WhatsApp. Mid-year, who knows, the National Education Policy might jolt Goa into improving the lot of future generations: and make government teachers, well, actually teach rather than punch in every morning to justify getting salaries. Actually, I must add, contrary to expectations, the teaching community did very well through the online classroom phase. Some, who hadn’t known how to handle a cellular phone learnt within seven days to record and air lessons on YouTube and take tutorials over Zoom or GoogleMeet/Team. (BTW, I used the word ‘cellular’ phone because according to Shri Husband, who claims—perhaps rightfully--that his English is better than mine, a ‘mobile’ phone should be able to move on its own or be driven, not carried.) Now that the Calangute hordes have gone back to re-infect folks in Karnataka, Maharashtra and wherever else they drove here from, the traffic has thinned on CHoGM Road. (Note: CHoGM is the correct spelling. Chogum is not.) Familiar local thug fights, over long-festering family-feuds, unpaid rents and scarce parking-spaces, have re-started as the drunken tourists have gone. We’re venturing (“Please write ‘masked, sanitized and distanced’,” dictates Shri Husband, peering over my shoulder) out of our territory, our village home, after three-fourths of the year. One (rare) thing we both agree upon: we don’t take punga with any virus. It took god knows how many centuries to eradicate ‘Devi’, the dreaded and highly infectious small-pox which left people with no eyesight and with ugly pock-marks on their faces even when they survived. Praying/fasting didn’t help, inoculations did. Remember polio? That awful virus which made people get sudden high fever and flaccidity and left them lame and helpless for a lifetime? How many drops for how many children over how many years have now conquered it… do the math to see how difficult it was/is to tame a rogue virus. Again, prayers/fasting didn’t work, the vaccine did. If the above two paragraphs were frightening to read, that was the intention. Covid-19 is no common cold. It’s not a Goan/Indian/Asian thing either. Get used to the idea that it’s a ba-ad infection and the only way to beat it is by taking precautions. “Masks, hand hygiene, distancing,” repeats Shri Husband in his irritating (he’s always correct, that’s what makes it irritating) way. So, with every precaution carefully taken, we chose to attend whatever we safely could of IFFI, and the Kesarbai Kerkar Sangeet Sammelan. IFFI first: I missed three days because although the documents were loaded (‘up-loaded’ – that was Shri Husband’s voice in my ear—‘although in your case, loaded might be correct, too.’), no acknowledgement came through my email. A visit to the (really helpful, cheerful and efficiently staffed) counter at the ESG worked. I got my card in a jiffy. After that, we booked our tickets online and dutifully saw what we were entitled to. It wasn’t the same. No queues, no arguments, no wrappers/tissues or tempers flying around. Some things were unchanged: blimp-shaped women wearing translucent dresses with easily viewed, brightly-coloured, gaily-printed underwear competing with similar-looking/dressed men. Filmy-creative-artsy devil-may-care attitudes are fun and common at such events. Staid old me notices and stores in the memory such things. As well as the soggy popcorn at Inox and cold chai in teeny steel conical tumblers at KA. And announcers with semi-Indian accents (love ‘em). College-student ushering highly enthusiastic cine-philes and time-passing retirees, fingering the micro-keyboards on their gadgets at sonic speed as they multi-tasked, messaging friends, checking our e-tickets/temperatures, chit-chatting as they did so. Guards who didn’t look like they were themselves secure, what to say about keeping us that way inside/outside the auditoria. Inside the theatres, it was a pleasant surprise that there was no national anthem to stand to. Aside: we weren’t the only ones who were carrying tiffin from home, going by the dabbas on the table outside the entrances. Missed the out-of-Goa regular IFFI buffs. The Kesarbai Kerkar Sangeet Samaroha: a big, big treat. If I had the money, I’d visit Salzburg or the Sydney Opera or Broadway. If I had the political clout in this country, I would charge that kind of money for attending these utterly delightful concerts. I read that it’s amongst the ten best classical music festivals in the world. With good reason. The curation, the quality of singers, the backdrop (every year it’s memorable) is of very high standard. Shri Husband says so, too, and we all know how hard it is to get a kind word out of him. In spite of the cheer in my life, cannot end this column on a happy note this time. Reason is the Farmers’ rally in Delhi. Biting cold, injustice, the might of the State on protestors, the goons who may have infiltrated the crowd, the forced-to-forget problems of the ex-Servicemen of this country who are asking for their dues--refer ‘One Rank One Pension’ or OROP-- for the last couple of years. Governments may mean well, may want India to be catapulted into the league of the Developed Nations, but if earlier we were terribly slow, now we’re pushing things through without dialogue/discussion; that means many points get missed, often vital ones. Listening to vox populi is democracy. I read today that in the Andamans, bridges will be built. The pros to the population and the cons to the environment need to be discussed over by experts. Without the inputs of environmentalists, modern town-planners/designers and the local population, there will be cause for alarm. In Mollem, the people let the government know they were serious about what they wanted. See what happened about getting the IIT to Goa? People may be unlettered, but we cannot assume they are unintelligent. Development is necessary, so is caution whilst driving towards it. I benefit from the flyovers and broad roads because I can reach Kala Academy, my Pandharpur for all that’s fine in my world, with ease. But there are no footpaths for me to walk on, to reach a grocery-store. No clean/comfortable/regularly-run, fairly-priced, ticket-providing buses that will take me from my home to wherever I want to go. No taxies that won’t fleece me unfairly. In the meanwhile, the broad roads will take many big cars which will keep burning expensive fuel as they search around for parking space. The fields on the sides that grew food, that made Goa pretty, are getting smaller and drier. The number of coconut trees is dwindling as also the number of climbers to get those coconuts down. The newer, more productive varieties of the nut have a different taste and texture. The beaches, once the pride and joy of Goans, have as many plastic bottles/packets as footprints. Or more. “Now look who’s giving the lecture,” Shri Husband said. Always has the last word, he does.

At Delfino 7 Apr 2020

We had stocks estimated to last till 14 April, the last day of the ‘lockdown’ as announced by the PM on 22 Mar. Not that we were running out of daal-chaawal-sugar-oil-soap, but since the news hinted that the curfew might be extended, we went shopping. To avoid a crowd, we went immediately after lunch, the hottest part of the day. Others had the same idea, for there was a crowd outside Delfino’s, our closest ‘supermarket’. All the small grocers and other shops in our area were shut, although the CM had requested them to stay open for 24 hours. Considering that they are usually shut most of the day anyway, didn’t expect anything different. A few did open for an hour or two in the morning, as was the usual routine pre-Covid-19 anyway, to sell milk-bread, onions-potatoes and maybe cigarettes-chai and then pulled shutters down. At the best of times these shops sell wilted, soggy ‘fresh’ vegetables. Except the ‘horticulture’ sheds. These days, hawkers who sell the local farm-produce have hiked their prices. We pay them what they ask for. In the Delfino’s compound, a shamiana had been erected to give shade to the customers waiting to enter. Small white circles were drawn to indicate where we could stand, 1.5 metres away from anyone in front, behind or to our sides. Like chess pieces, we stood, waiting to make a move when the Security chap indicated we should/could, when someone exited from the payment-counter at the other end of the shop. He sprayed the handles of the trolleys and every palm with a lemon-smelling disinfectant before entry. As senior citizens, we were entitled to break the queue. Shri Husband, a stickler for ‘go by the spirit not the letter of a regulation’ said we should go when our turn came, as it wouldn’t be fair to the younger folk. ‘We’re in good health and it won’t take long,’ he said. Strange how he’s patient at the oddest times. Not with me, but I’ll save that for another article. Every time a young person’s turn came, a senior citizen turned up and went ahead. Stay, ordered Shri Husband and I shifted from one foot to another and back, smiling through my mask at a woman standing across the square, who had focussed her spectacled eyes on my huge canvass bag. When she didn’t smile back, I folded the bag and pressed the creases to spite her. Little else to do. When my turn came, I exchanged four cardboard egg-trays for coupons. Two bucks per tray is what Delfino’s takes off the bill. I stuffed the coupons into my wallet. I have a collection of those coupons. For some reason, I do not remember to present them at check-out, so they accumulate. “The lockdown hasn’t made a difference to your memory,” Shri Husband remarked after we went home. Snide. I should never have mentioned the coupons to him. Inside Delfino’s, there was quiet music, air-conditioning, no jostling, pleasant staff. No Amul buttermilk, but milk aplenty. No kurmuras, but poha available. No mutton, but beef and pork looked fresh. No toor or moong dals, but urad and masoor were in stock. Our favourite rice, ambe-mohar, the ponni-rice for idli, rava and the flours we love—jwari specially—were available. We aren’t into insta-foods, but I noticed that the noodles, bottle-can-and-carton shelves were empty. Maybe customer-habit researchers are doing a study? Convinced that the electricity-department wasn’t letting us down, we bought butter, paneer, peas from the frozen section. Oil, soap. Once I’d run through my list, I reached out for non-list items—snacks, sauces. Shri Husband was impressed (rare!) that I had made a list. Like budgets and dusting, it’s on my never-to-be-done things. But these are unusual times we’re living through and persons (being politically correct here) like me in other parts of the planet must be doing the same, I imagine. I saw other trolleys piled high. Were they stocking for six months? Was I doing something wrong by buying for just another four or five days? Influenced by the others, at the chemist, we decide to buy a month’s medicine. I walked out pleased that I had ‘everything’ now. Coconuts, curry-leaves, green chillies, drumsticks and pumpkin flowers we get from our compound. The nustekar blows the horn every alternate day announcing the arrival of a scooter-ful of fish from Betim. Bony, scaly, down-market ones, but they’re a good source of protein when we’re tired of eating eggs. What I can buy at and around my house, I don’t buy from any supermarket. Like leafy vegetables, alsande, chawli, tambdi bhaji, etc. I must admit, and not reluctantly, that Shri Husband is a good house-husband. Sweeping, mopping, washing he does, and happily. Possibly because I’m tidiness challenged. He lends a helping hand in cooking, chopping, clearing, too. Through Facebook and the Whatsapp groups of my schoolmates, ex-colleagues and other acquaintances, I have gathered that many husbands around the world are as kind and supportive. There is no way I will let him read this paragraph, let him know I am fortunate. Might change his persona. This is not the time to disturb status quo. After the Delfino trip, after putting things away, I sit to check messages. I have friends in ill health. One is living by herself and missing face-contact with other humans. One cousin is unhappy to be imprisoned in a tiny flat with unpleasant family-members who are not talking to each other, for twenty-four hours, day after day. One is an alcoholic getting severe withdrawal symptoms. One is worried because she cannot reach her daughter on phone or via the internet and doesn’t know what to do because the daughter fiercely protects her ‘privacy’. Contrary-wise, many are enjoying their solitude, the company of their partners/pets/books/music. A very few, like me, are grateful that life has been, so far, good, that I am able to have excursions to places like Delfino’s. Approaching 14 April, I say, que sera, sera.