It took me 90 days to muster courage to make the first visit to the office. For three months, I locked myself at home, working in sequestered comfort. Or discomfort, as some would say. The only excursions included the weekly trips, on and off, to the nearest paan shop 20 metres away. To be frank, it wasn’t guts, but fear, which forced the decision. One set of fear—about the safety and health of my ageing mother—had kept me confined. Now, another set of dread—the one we still feel with trepidation—made me go to office. It’s that dark anxiety of losing one’s job. Masked with an N95—the New Yorker said those were used by the medical staff in the US—I reached the magazine’s headquarters.
Like everyone, who has been to office or hoped to go after the lockdown, I expected the obvious changes, but was ready for the startling ones. My mind was in a twirl—hopeful and pessimistic, brooding and excited.
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