Covid 8

She was tired. Tired of hearing clichés. The one she liked to hate the most was when the going gets tough… That was just the biggie. The others said have faith in God. His eye is on the sparrow. Whatever will be will be. Blah blah blah. None of it helped, while she got mired deeper in doubt everyday.  Whether the governmnet would be able to keep the country together ? Whether her exams which had already been postponed for a week, a month, a quarter would ever happen. Would she ever graduate ? If she did what then? In a post Covid world with just about everything restricted ? Her dreams to go to the US for a Masters seemed like a hallucination.

 She’d had it all chalked out. Graduate . Work for a year or two. Post grad abroad. Marriage. A family. She’d keep working. Kids. Travel to Europe on immersive vacations every year. Grand kids. She’d spoil her grandchildren rotten. She’d fadeaway in a rocking chair, knitting socks when she was 80 plus. 

That pesky neighbor refused to take no for an answer. So there she was with them making masks for slum dwellers. Even before they finished that, vermiculture was under discussion. Garbage collection was as much in the past as Mohenjodaro. So she helped build the pit. They had sessions for everyone. How and what went where. Pesky neighbor wanted to have a soup dispensing station at the society gate. For anyone who couldn’t get a meal. She volunteered for the 7-8 pm shift. An old uncle wanted help. Her chemistry background would maybe help in his distillation. Liquor shops were going the same Mohenjodaro route. He claimed he’d never ever had such a smooth rich flavourful full bodied peg. 

The second round of mask production was getting underway. The kids of the colony needed to be kept up to date with their maths and english and science. The next road wanted her expertise for their vermiculture. 

Her college wrote to say that she could complete her course online. She didn’t have the time.