Do You Remember the Covid Days in India

Oh the Covid days in India—when life felt like a reality show with bizarre tasks, except no one signed up for it! Who can forget the iconic "mask hai toh task hai" mantra? We went from casually breathing free air to becoming human ninjas, armed with masks and hand sanitisers like it was a Bollywood heist movie.  

And the "no-touch, stand 5 feet away" protocol? Ah, the golden era of dodging aunties at weddings who still insisted, “Beta, ek plate mithai toh le lo!” Suddenly, everyone was a germophobe. Elevator buttons in our Nandan Prospera society were pressed with car keys, and namaste replaced handshakes faster than you could say "social distancing."  

Remember the infamous thali bajao evenings? What a concert! India united in a symphony of steel plates and wooden spoons, as if scaring off the virus required an orchestra. And the diya jalao nights? Our balconies lit up like Diwali, but the virus stubbornly stayed. Such vibes, much disappoint! 

Then came the vaccinations—our very own Hunger Games. Getting a slot on CoWIN was harder than scoring tickets for an India-Pakistan match. And those travel passes? People forged them better than their Class 10 report cards!  

Ah, the Covid era—when Raju, my school friend and full-time cynic, became an anti-vax philosopher. "Why vaccinate? Virus is scared of my immune system! It is a conspiracy to profit pharma companies, he declared, while chugging kadha like it was magic potion.  

Shivaji Park katta meet-ups became secret summits, where we whispered updates like spies, maintaining 1.5 metre distance yet shouting, “Abe, mask neeche rakho mat!” 

Meanwhile, our WhatsApp DSB group transformed into an encyclopedia of forwarded gyan—"Drink turmeric water to defeat corona!"—thanks to rhe tatpurti whatsApp doctors without a degree. 

The rush for medicines was like a treasure hunt—except the map was misinformation, and the prize was paracetamol. Pharmacies turned into war zones, with people hoarding pills and Remdesvir like gold. Meanwhile, grandma's turmeric tea and WhatsApp cures including bovine turd and piss fought for relevance. In the end, patience was the best prescription. 

My wife Alka washed veggies so hard their greens turned blue. The car windows were sealed tighter than Tambat Ali bhandi. And those rubber chappals? One pair for morning walks, one for veggie markets, and one for... absolutely nothing. I suspect they were just to match her pandemic-level paranoia!

In hindsight, we survived not just Covid, but Raju’s confidence and Bhakt’s remedies!

And yet, amidst the fear and tragedy, there were jugaads and memes. We survived the chaos, and now, the memories feel like a dystopian sitcom. Covid days may be gone, but they'll forever remain in our WhatsApp forwards and awkward laughter.

What a time to be alive... and sanitised.

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