A LE T T ER FRO M I NDI A
A Glimpse of a Distant Mountain by Anjana Nair
L
ast week, my daughter’s teacher forwarded a short video on how to grow microgreens and suggested the kids try it at home as they wait out the coronavirus lockdown. My daughter enthusiastically followed the instructions and watched every hour to see how her little plants were faring. The promised one-week time frame was over today and she was disappointed that the stalks were nowhere near as grown or as lush as the video promised. “Wait for a few more days,” I suggested, pointing out the little tendrils with their tightly clenched fists that were sure to open up into bright greens in just a few days more. But she had lost interest in the endeavor because the plants had not adhered to the deadline. But then, that is what the world in the “normal” days trained her for — discipline, structure and, yes, a sense of hurry. Nothing in nature, except for humankind, has the kind of impatience we live with on a minute-to-minute basis. And yet, over the last two months, we have learned to pause. And wait. Wait for the pandemic to pass. Wait for the world to heal. Wait for life to return to what it used to be. As I write this, around four million people worldwide have been infected with the dreaded coronavirus and more than 250,000 have lost their lives. In my own state of Kerala in India, early
adoption of stringent measures have kept the numbers fairly low and for the last week, the numbers of newly infected patients has stayed in the range of zero to three. And yet, as United Nations Secretary General Antonio Guterres said last week, “In an interconnected world, none of us is safe till all of us are safe.” Never before has the entire world been united in disaster on this scale. Never before has the world ground to a stop like it has now. The impossible has been revealed to be indeed possible. “From sporting events to international expositions to trade, travel and entertainment — there is nothing that cannot take a breather,” is the startling revelation this period has thrown up. Is the universe offering us a chance to take stock of our choices and clean up our act? By showing us what our world could look like — from work-at-home to online schooling to roads unburdened by vehicles — is it giving us the opportunity to shape a new normal? In an ordinary year, this month would have been all about preparing for the new academic year that starts in June. While making sure books and uniforms were purchased on schedule, we would also have sneaked in a mini-vacation before school reopened and spent time with the grandparents. Instead we are discussing the pros and cons of online classes, video-calling family to stay connected and making furtive trips to the terrace to get some fresh air when we are sure there aren’t too many others around.
“We have learned to pause. And wait. Wait for the pandemic to pass. Wait for the world to heal. Wait for life to return to what it used to be.”
Anjana Nair, a lawyer and freelance writer, sits in her home in Kerala.
OFFICIAL PUBLICATION OF CNEWA
15
