No appreciation? Come on!

Now that neighbourhoods are empty of the normal din of a city, sounds travel easily, making your minding-his-own-business columnist a reluctant eavesdropper privy to information that would otherwise have been lost in the hum of urban cohabiting.

Shanta ji speaking to Uma behn across the wall: “What achche din ji, I toh wanted to go to London, na, my sister is there, lucky girl, eating strawberries and all with cream, but ab toh my Mister is saying we have to be here only. No malls, no eating out, no parties even, yeh kya gul hui? Arre, it is so depressing, I haven’t put on lipstick in 45 days. Upar se, all this ghar ka kaam because Mister says maid nahi aayegi. Maid nahi aayegi then you do the jhadoo-pocha na!” Mister’s voice from the background: “But that’s what I do, and cook too. Come and eat your breakfast so I can wash up.”

Socially distant walker #1: “I want to open the factory but there’s no labour any more.” Socially distant walker #2: “…then HR called and said I must take a 30 per cent cut on my package from when I joined five years back. I told her that’s peanuts, and she told me they fired Harish and are looking to prune the department further. So, I said yes.” Socially distant walker #1: “My missus is saying we should sell the factory, but who’ll buy it now?” Socially distant walker #2: “I don’t know how I’ll pay my EMIs any more — on the car, on the house, on the loan I took from my brother-in-law for the Alaskan cruise the children insisted on. Basically, I’m bankrupt.” Socially distant walker #1: “Hey, you want to buy my factory, I’ll even give you a discount, black, white, no problem, damn good location, full staff, reputation also in the market…?”

In a queue to buy provisions, two friends talking over the head of another shopper, everyone a meticulously measured six feet apart. Babita: “Just finished a Zoom meeting, have another one after lunch, bak-bak-bak, no personal life, no Netflix-shetflix. How are you coping?” Sneha: “Had a Zoom party last night, I was so excited — dressing up, putting on make-up. My hand was shaking so much, I had to ask my husband to apply my mascara.” Babita: “How lucky! Make-up toh lagaya. On these office calls, nobody looks at anybody, just sending rude messages to other colleagues about boss pakaoing everyone.” Sneha: “Vaise, these virtual parties are sooo boring. Opening drink, eating pakora, then looking at screen. Kya bolo? And you can’t tell anyone that Sarla ka makeup was absolute bakwas.”

Wife on phone with said Sarla: “The whole day, I pot and re-pot plants, I water them, I take them inside, put them on the staircase, wash their leaves, move them outside again — you’d think there’d be some appreciation, but kahan? Daughter-in-law to her husband: “I ate that horrible, green, vegetably thing yesterday, I made the bed, I didn’t have chips or Maggi, I even said I liked the silly dress your mother made — you’d think there’d be some appreciation, but kahan? Cook to wife on phone: “Cold coffee, hot chai, kam ghee wala paratha, masala in pasta, no masala in pasta, sabki chik-chik — you’d think there’d be some appreciation, but kahan?