When will corona die?

Another walk on the road, and we are seven in number. Us three from home and the neighbors. It is lovely, like usual, the sky today.

“Amma, when will corona die?” asks my neighbor’s kid. Her mother dials a number on the phone which makes her even more impatient. She’s always trying to make her point on our evening-walk. When morning, she’s usually as quite as the lake we walk to. We maintain a distance of seven feet. One after another, like the train of angry ants. Yes, we call ourselves ants trying to be better humans.

To avoid being at her tantrum, I answer “A few more days. Why? You love going to school that much?”

“No! I don’t ever want to go to school. It’s better this way.”

She winks back to the point made. But, her dad couldn’t say the same about his office. ‘He cannot say this about his office’ is more precise. Without having options to choose from, he chooses to risk it all.

He works at the Government, and I barely know him. With him in the front, we barely talk. And, with me at the tail, it’s easier to have fun with this kid. Must say, it’s even comfortable back here without being fed with opinions and facts. At least we both agree that Tom was Jerry’s best friend.

We talk about the sky more than corona. More about the fun in not going to school than corona. More about our personal tricks to walk on the lake than corona. But, it’s challenging for even us to not talk about the killer walking freely on these streets.

“Tonight, it will die. I just spoke with corona! Tomorrow morning, it will have died!” her mother replies with the widest smile. She just got off the phone.

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Towards Kalpa

Kalpa is a village far from here. Doesn’t matter where you live.

It’s just far, as I remember Moshi telling me stories about it. She’s from North. And, I never left Pilodh, our sweet abode to the lengthy farms my father owns and works at.

Pilodh has been my home for twenty-six years now. I was born here to the richest farmer, my friends say. They left last year to the city. Something to do with the money for the temple.

I remember that my grand-mother took me to the temple once, four miles from here. And, I don’t remember a longer trip.

I dream of the green-fields we can see from the top of our huge house. It’s not that huge, really, as you’d imagine for a farmer like my father. It’s just the smallest house with the finest materials from Old Britain.

Yes, my father, unlike other farmers, lets my mother do whatever she wants to. She wants the blankets from Manchester, she’ll have it. She needs to drink water from the city, she’ll have it. I want her to be dressed like Kay Adams, she’ll have the frock, but he won’t act like Michael Corleone.

Love that movie.

And, I am told to never leave her. Something to do with her legs. Father says she can’t walk, run or jump like I do. He also told me that I have to be here with her till my last breath.

Which makes me feel like running away with Moshi to her village. She is treated finer than the temple’s statues. She gets to eat chocolates from London. She even let me eat a Toblerone all for myself once. But, Moshi can’t run. Moshi can’t even walk. And, she definitely cannot jump as I do.

I am sick of you, Moshi. Please take me to Kalpa.