Newerways

Corona crisis just rubbed against my shoulders and my overtly overworked brain was spinning more stories than the virus replicating in humans. Corona hugged me like the Italians and Namaste was deliberately whimpering away from glory. What, if I die of pneumonia with such weak lungs what will my sons do they just don’t know anything about my financial liabilities. Thankfully Netflix never suggested newer problems apart from those of loan sharks, which I have been addicted to in past few months. To me, the subject that required most urgent attention was not mask, gloves or the grocery in lockdown but writing my “WILL”. My son ridiculed me on every call have you written your will, not that he is interested in my inheritance but he tries to encourage me to delve in what I would like to do most. “If you don’t have the time to write your will why don’t you stop seeing the patients and doing all the household chores thrust upon you without your consent? You should first do what is real

As a student studying in a different city from my hometown I had to be a frequent visitor to the railway station for my reservations on train. Life was not as easy, the long winding queues and the suffocating smell of sweat, the heat and the body hugging closeness with people around sent shivers down your spine. A sole fan on the high ceiling of the Charbagh railway station was the only provider for any circulation of air, if there was any. Yes! At times we could assert ourselves and make a separate queue for ladies but most times this feminist move would be rejected by males waiting since hours for their turn. Obviously railways had no such provisions at least on the booking counters even though they provided a seat quota for ladies on the train. In those dreary hours of wait I could simply shift my weight from one leg to another hoping for a miracle to happen. On the other side of the window the booking clerk himself looked exasperated. Sweat continued to trickle down his fac