Our tryst with the new normal

For about eighteen months most of us are just plain exhausted--mentally, physically, economically, and existentially. We have harrowing stories to tell about the perilous life we are all living through this pandemic.

Like a prisoner spending years in solitary confinement, I have segregated myself in the cocoon of my home since Covid-19 started haunting us. And all the while Rebecca, my wife, has been my only companion. She always encourages me to break boredom through engagement in works. But she, being sick, can hardly take care of any household chores however eager she is always to extend her helping hand. She is the same person who was the only cook in the house when we were living in Maryland. With several health issues challenging her movement, she has become extremely frail, always scared to perform even a light task lest her weak legs give in and make her stumble and fall down. Rebecca had slipped and broken the femur of her left leg twice in a span of five years, the first time in Toronto in 2013 and the last in Dhaka in 2018.

We had always part-time helping hands who would take care of all the housekeepings. We splurged on all the creature comforts of a home. Fate, then, like a bolt from the blue, ushered in a new era of quarantines.

I got gripped by a feeling of fear that we could contract Covid-19 if we allowed a part-timer to work in our house. My wife and I are pretty aged and we both have preexisting health conditions that are inviting to corona pathogen. I had to be a bit unkind to request the old maids to take leave, at least temporarily, as none of them agreed to be a full-timer.

I found a young lady who agreed to manage all our chores living in our apartment around the clock. But unfortunately, she, an outgoing type, could not continue her job after four months. She felt stuffy living a caged life. She couldn’t reconcile herself with not being able to go out and meet her friends and relatives now and then. However, I failed to hire another full-time hand despite my frantic attempts.

Managing meals for two of us in the absence of a cook was an uphill struggle. My auntie who lives about five miles away from us was kind to cook our meals that I used to fetch twice a week in a tiffin carrier. Driving to her place and bringing those foods was a hassle. My patience was wearing thin. In desperation, I felt like running away from home.

One idea was beginning to dawn on me. I know a number of male acquaintances who enjoy cooking. And there are lessons on cooking on YouTube for free, why not give it a try?

Never in my life did I stay in a kitchen for more than five minutes, for making my tea, let alone cook food. When I was young, my father hardly permitted me to go shop in a raw market, fearful that a dog could bite me on the way or I could trip on a slippery floor of the fish market. I was a spoiled child.

Today, to the shocking surprise of my relatives and friends, I am an accomplished cook, an orderly housekeeper, an adroit cleaner, adept at dusting furniture, chopping onions, frying fish, cooking vegetables, not least scrubbing plates and floors.

Initially, I made blunders by overcooking or undercooking, using too small a pan, working with a dull knife. I use two pressure cookers, one for rice and the other for lentil soup, our regular daily meals. I know how to cook rice for how many whistles to make the boiled rice crispy and yet soft. I soak lentils in water for an hour, then cook them for three or four whistles.

One should give me an award for my accomplishment in making ‘deshi rooti’ (flatbread). It’s not an easy job. Kneading the dough well to fully develop the gluten is the hardest part I find. The dough must be made soft and pliable. Your art of rolling the wooden pin on the board ensures the ‘rooti’s perfect circular shape. If you want to go for those irresistible puffs from the bread’s center to the edges while baking it, you need expertise that I am yet to grasp.

When the pandemic has forced entire societies indoors and made going outside fear-inducing and as I have been so accustomed to having lived inside my home all the time -24/7- I feel extremely nervous whenever I venture out into a place thronged with people. I fear even going to a salon for a haircut. Little by little I have started divorcing myself from many friends with whom I used to meet frequently.

Throughout the pandemic, I’ve also felt fortunate: retired, only responsible for myself and my wife, lots of time to dive deeper into reading and my other hobbies. And when I feel down I say “Hey Google! Play Hindi Deshi Bollywood Evergreen Hits On TuneIn” and my loyal ‘Google Home’ wafts out those lovely songs linked to an Internet Radio Station.

Online shopping has made things easy to avoid social stupidity in shopping malls. Cooking is now a cakewalk for me. I no longer need a maid. Still, I am struggling to cope with a peculiar mix of happiness, anxiety, and relief while facing a new lifestyle, a new routine so bizarre. Anxiety characterized by fear and avoidance of places may, I’m afraid, kindle in me a kind of agoraphobia---an irrational fear a long-term prisoner faces on the day he is released.

The last year and a half has forced us to come to grips with mortality, no matter our age, and how we actually want to live our one and only life. None of us is the same as we were in 2019, and collectively we are in a new place, facing a new normal.

The writer is a retired banker and a freelance columnist