“Accha,
look,” my 11-year old son shouted from the tatami room. I turned back to
see him lying supine on a pile of pillows with his head, arms, and legs
stretched and dangling down. “Modiji’s yoga pose,” he said. He was doing Jhumlasana,
a signature move that was conceived and popularized by Indian PM Modi. Modiji,
we all know, performs his stunts on rough, inhospitable terrains such as on
rocks and stuff, which is possible only through years and years of practice
posing in front of cameras. So, ideally kids shouldn’t be trying those at home,
but it has been a tough couple of months for my son. Ever since the
coronavirus-related restrictions came into place and the consequent lack of entertainment,
he has been restless around the house and frankly quite a handful – riding his RipStik blade
inside, playing hoops with a small ball and toy hoop in the bedroom, making a
metre-long straw to drink his juice, burning old birthday candles, remodelling his RC cars,
and creating his own hip-hop bling jewellery with gem clips, one of which I had
to wear on my neck for a few hours while working.
It’s been
more than six months since $#it hit the Chinese fan in Wuhan, and almost four
months since I started wearing a mask when going out. Back in early February, I remember
driving my niece to a concert in Shibuya. On our way, we saw the infamous
COVID-19 infected cruise ship, the Diamond Princess, quarantined in Yokohama port while crossing
the Rainbow Bridge. Once we reached Shibuya, and after ensuring that my niece
was safely inside the concert hall, we whiled away the time by strolling around
the district taking in the sights, had coffee and cake at a café
crowded with fashionable youth, and later just sat outside the concert place
waiting for my niece to come out. The area was bustling as usual with hordes of
people, many of them tourists, and mostly young. But one thing stood out. Most
of them had masks on.
This was in
early February, as I said earlier. The pandemic was yet to overrun Italy and
other European nations. Modiji, the masterstroker was planning to fill up a stadium later in the month for his phrend Trump the Two Dick (an honorary title
bestowed on cowshed/stable geniuses; from the Hindi word Dho Lund). In fact, he won’t take out his next masterstroke, the one for saving
India’s middle class, for another month and a half. However, based on a titbit of information released strategically in June, we know that Modiji was aware of the COVID-19 pandemic much earlier than
anyone else on the face of the earth. Not only
that, he had prepared a secret plan to tackle this crisis as early as January.
He then secretly buried that plan under a neem tree in his backyard and, as is
his wont, shot off a poetic letter to his mom. Neem tree, as per our ancient
texts, has magical powers and on full moon days, when Jupiter is near Uranus
and you feel the urge, dogs will pee on the tree at the stroke of midnight,
imparting special powers on whatever is hidden under it. Anyway, after almost
three months of keeping it hidden, Modiji pulled that magically-charged plan
out on March 24 at 7:45 pm. That time 7:45, you see, is important. According to
numerology, 7 + 4 = 11, and 11 + 5 of course is 16. Now comes the interesting
part. 1 + 6… Voila, it’s 7. What comes after 7? Eight, obviously. So, at 8:00
pm on March 24, Modiji came on TV, secret plan in hand, and said “Mitrroon”.
The rest, as they say, is history, as the country went into lockdown and slew
that virus in 21 days. But, then there is the old Swedish Gir jungle saying, "Modiji hai to Moomin hai (Modiji is Moomin)," or something like that.
Sorry I got
carried away by the Indian story. I was planning to write about what has
been happening here in Nippon. The Japanese PM, perhaps taking a cue from
Modiji, ordered a lockdown here in Japan in April. Well, not exactly “ordered”.
Given his boob size, which is nowhere near 56 inches, all PM Abe could do was make
a request. “Please try and stay home and do not go out if it is
non-essential…”. So, many people kept going to work on crowded trains and
buses, because they have to do this very essential thing called pressing a hanko
on papers. The hanko is your personal seal. Everything in Japan needs a hanko.
You may be tattooing 命 on your butt cheek or you may be buying a smartphone. All the relevant procedures will be completed digitally, but then they’ll print everything out and you have to press your hanko in at least 10 places to make it
official. So, in modern, digitally-savvy Japan, workers trudge to offices in
the midst of a lockdown to do this extremely “essential” act.
Anyway, we,
as a family, decided to practice self-restraint and limited our trips outside to
once a week to buy stuff. We switched from shopping at different neighbourhood
shops to shopping at a big supermarket a few kilometres away. In the first week of lockdown,
the place was crowded with people buying up things, and the checkout queue
snaked around inside the store with waiting time of up to an hour. There I was, standing in a queue, thinking whether I should fart loudly if I have to cough for some
reason, when a lady in the adjacent queue coughed. I immediately began making
calculations – we are about two feet apart; she is four and a half feet tall; I
am six feet; How do you find the frikkin’ hypotenuse of a triangle h = 1.5
feet, l = 2 feet? Fortunately, I’ve been teaching my boys and knew the formula for
hypotenuse, ⇃(h² + l²) i.e.
= 2.5 feet. Now, convert it…c'mon... my mind raced… 1 foot
is about 30cm. Shit, the government said a minimum of one metre in social
distancing and this is only about 75cm. Does the coronavirus float up like
helium? Does it know about government guidelines and refrain from attacking sideways? I was
not sure. Fortunately, going against Murphy’s law, my line moved and I heaved a
sigh of relief. The next
week was pretty much the same, but the shop restricted entry to one person from a
family or group. And by the fourth week, nobody cared (except for masks and
some social distancing).
Right now, things seem to be under control. However, many new cases are being traced to hostess clubs, pointing to some guys losing
control. Well, can’t help it, as they have been atmanirbhar (self-reliant) strokers for a while now. Meanwhile, nobody seems to know how this is all going to end. I too don’t
know how to end this rant other than by chanting Go Corona, Go!
