72 Days

A short fiction story by Binaifer Dulani, Group Head — Copy

It was a Sunday. June 7th.

After 72 days of being under curfew the government had finally announced,
“The Coronavirus lockdown ends tomorrow. We’ve been monitoring the situation and can triumphantly declare that we have defeated Covid-19. We salute the tireless efforts of medical practitioners across the globe, and all those on the frontlines, who helped India stay under lockdown by providing and delivering essentials. The sun will shine brighter on all of us tomorrow, as we step out of our homes into a victorious India.”

Sukhna read and re-read this NewsInshorts update. Her WhatsApp groups were ablaze as they pinged with excitement.

Work Group
Kabhi na socha tha Monday ko kaam par aana itna exciting hoga
Guiz, let’s do a potluck in the office. What say? I’ll get the 🐠 curry
In
In
In

Can’t
believe
This
Is
Over

🔥🔥🔥🔥

<hyperactive GIFs of crackers, dancing babies, dancing Pandas, dogs running about excitedly>

Family Group
Forward: Government announces the end of Covid-19
Forward: How to get ready for life after lockdown
Forward: mp4 file of Shiva aiming a trishul at the Coronavirus molecule, splitting it open, leading to its merciful death.
<Hi-five emojis misinterpreted as hands joined in prayer pinged their way in>

College Group
Kissi disco mein jaaye, jaaye
Kissi hotel mein khaaye, khaaye
Chalo ishq ladaaye, chalo ishq ladaaye

LMFAO
LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL
Hahahahahahahahahahha

Sukhna couldn’t wait to go back to work. 72 days under lockdown.
By now, she had memorized every crevice in her studio apartment.
She knew that her curtains had 12 big flowers, and 17 tiny ones.
That the Absolut Vodka bottle in which she had put fairy lights, had a massive tiger whose stripes were in the shape of snakes. Wow.

She had read the cereal box so many times, she knew the ingredients
by-heart. Whole wheat flour, oat flour, maltodextrin, molasses, folic acid.
She had googled what maltodextrin was — a polysaccharide that was used as a food additive. Side effects: High on glycemic index which means it can cause a spike in blood sugar.

She had noticed that one of her breasts was a teensy bit tinier than the other. That the paint on her cupboard had chipped in the shape of Antarctica.
She observed that her angel fish, Ghochu, had seven fine silver lines and two broad black strokes, and usually liked to lurk around the right hand corner of the fish bowl. Sukhna had conjured up multiple conspiracy theories for that.

Ghochu had been Sukhna’s only companion through the lockdown,
but didn’t seem to have any socio-political opinions. Worse even, it just yawned (opening and closing its mouth) when Sukhna had something
important to say. Obviously, she couldn’t wait to connect with the rest of the world. You couldn’t blame her.

Sukhna put together her work ensemble for the next day. A bright yellow top with bell sleeves, a black pencil skirt, and black pumps. She decided to ditch the bra. After 72 days of not wearing one, she declared the nipple free forever.

She usually wore a Mickey Mouse t-shirt, joggers and flat sandals to work.
But not tomorrow.

She woke up to a sunny day. It was almost like the sun had received the government’s memo too. A jazzy auto that had its disco lights on in broad daylight took Sukhna to the station. The song, “Aaj blue hai paani paani paani paani paani paani… aur din bhi saani saani saani saani saani saani” blared from its speakers.

The platform was decorated with flowers. In the first-class ladies’ compartment, women passed around tupperwares with home-made sweets. Mohanthal, churra, besan ka laddu. Her ears missed the sound of ‘Next station Matunga. Agla station Matunga. Pudheel sthanak Matunga.’ But today, these announcements were interspersed with #metoo accused artist, Anu Malik’s, ‘East or west, yo, India is the best, yo.’

When she entered the office, it had the same comfortable smell.
A cocktail of phenyl, cigarettes, expensive perfume and deep-fried food.
That was Grassroots Strategy Worldwide.

She saw that the bonsai on her desk was wilting, but it wasn’t dead yet. Sukhna watered Willy, and spoke soothingly to it. “Hi, my baby. I’m back, my baby.” She curled up on her chair and opened her laptop. The buttons on her keypad were lined with bright orange doritos powder. She started cleaning it meticulously. She logged into her work account and started her day. Colleagues kept coming by her desk, and they met like school kids after
summer vacation.

“Sukhna, your unibrow has grown in the shape of Mangal Pandey’s moustache.”
They all laughed. Sukhna laughed and snorted.

Finally, she was at her office terrace, black coffee in one-hand, sutta in the other, with her team. It felt like someone had regulated the fan back to the right speed.

Just before she could break for the office potluck, her colleague messaged her. “Conference room. Urgent briefing.”

She rushed to the conference room to learn that an ambitious task stood before one of her clients. A retail store that sold everything from a pin to a pinata had projected losses worth 75 lacs in the lockdown period. Sacking people was the only way out. Unless… they could find a way to show a steep spike in sales and convince their investors that the pink slip could be avoided.
A strategy had to be cracked pronto to help the company save its employees.
Turns out, the battle was still not over.

In the conference room, everyone focussed intently.

“What if… what if we host a sale, almost like Black Friday, you know.”

A crescendo of ‘hmmmms’ acknowledged his idea.

Someone else pitched, ‘We’re just out of Covid-19. People are still insecure. Let’s just spread some fake news that Covid-19 is not entirely defeated, and people will be back to hoarding. Might do the trick.”

Another said, “Yaar, I don’t feel comfortable playing with people’s insecurities.
I mean push comes to shove, sure.”

Sukhna said, “Guys… we’re out of a big mess, there’s optimism. Let’s use that to our advantage. Let’s promote prosocial spending. It basically means encouraging people to spend on others.”

“We can pitch it like this — Covid-19 was defeated because of each one of us. We fought every impulse to get out of the house and limited the spread. So let’s show our appreciation for each other by gifting something meaningful.”

“We can turn this into a massive movement. Let’s get a big celebrity to start the cycle. Obviously with brand plugs and all.”

There was a short-lived pause.

“Fucking brilliant,” someone said.

“Let’s get to this, we need to submit a plan by EOD. “

The team started typing furiously on their computers. The sound of multiple keyboards being tapped together created an orchestra of sorts. That was the sound of teamwork.

Sukhna popped a combiflam to control her impending hunger headache, and gulped down another black coffee.

Seven more black coffees later it was 11PM. The presentation was ready to be shipped. Sukhna cursed herself for wearing her tik-toks. Her feet hurt.
But her Bonsai seemed to be doing better. It looked like it was coming out of a painful hangover. Sukhna empathized. She inhaled her final cigarette of the day and headed to the station to be on her way home.

On the way, she saw a man dressed in formals, haggling for free dhaniya with a vegetable vendor.

“Jackass… chutiya,” Sukhna muttered under her breath.

Her train arrived, and as she was about to step in, a big butt pushed her and raced for the last empty seat. Sukhna stood in her pencil heels in the train.

#MeToo accused Anu Malik’s, ‘East or west, yo, India is the best yo’ wasn’t playing any more.

A slew of autowalas turned her down from the station, without even stopping.
Twenty minutes later, Sukhna cried out loud on the street, ‘meter double dungi’ and an autowala paid heed to her pitch and stopped.

Sukhna clattered in her heels to the rickshaw.

Finally, she sat before her fish tank. Ghochu was chilling in the same spot — the right hand corner of the bowl. Sukhna said, “Four days to go. Cannot wait to be home with you all day.”