As a sequel to the poem – ‘COVID’s Witching Hour’, I try and discuss what a perfect COVID era weekend quarantined at home would look like.
Forty Eight Hours
lie ahead,
Precious hours
that will never come back.
Life has been scattered
off-track,
But I’ll endeavor
to use it to my advantage instead.
I don’t have
plans grandiose,
If grandiose is
the word I want.
Lockdown has made
home my favorite haunt,
But what I have
planned will be far less otiose,
Than exertions on
a usual weekend which would
Have in Pre-COVID
times been unduly
Spent far more
wastefully,
Doing me more
harm than good.
So let’s see what
I have billed,
For the best days
of the week.
Here goes a sneak
peek
Of the schedule I
have penciled.
Saturday’s dawn has
been reserved for Yoga,
An art that was
never learnt proper,
Still in process,
since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.
In the weeks to
come, I hope to complete this saga.
By perfecting the
onerous head stand
And champion,
The inimitable
poses of crow, peacock and scorpion,
The toughest of
the lot in Asana land.
When the mercury
will rise,
Heralding the
arriving of noon,
The hunger games
will begin soon,
And the kitchen
shall see a new chef.
Dabbling with
esoteric recipes at will,
To concoct a
Biriyani,
With ingredients
zany and style uncanny.
My repertoire
will welcome the addition of the culinary skill.
As the evenfall
approaches,
I will make a
beeline to the terrace
And
shin up the dangerous
Water tank,
unguarded, ignoring reproaches.
I’ll immerse
myself in the splendor,
The spectacle
that a ravishing sunset
Will produce and one
that will beget
Darkness, welcoming
the full moon which is even grander.
As the cool breeze
sets in when time turns nocturnal,
Sans pubs and
buddies, a solitary guzzle of beers
Fizzle out of
bottle, to myself I’ll say cheers.
And then finally indulge
in primordial love so eternal.
An almost
impossible act to cherry-pick,
One fine star
from the vast Wodehousean sky
And curl up in its
sublime wry
Humor, and get
lost in its pages idyllic.
With that I hope I
will conclude,
A near perfect
day, as Saturday
Will segue into its
twin-day.
This is what will
lie in store for Sunday.
The early morning’s
toil
Will be for a
spot of gardening,
Watering, plant
tending
And composting
the soil.
Add to the
pleasurable strain of backs bent
A couple of hours
of work done hard
I shall loll in
the small patch of greensward
And savor the
time well spent.
Following an icy
shower and quick bite of bread,
I will have time
finally to catch up on loads
Of missed
Instagram activity and couple of episodes
Of the riveting ‘The
Walking Dead’.
There is nothing
that beats,
The heavenly
siesta on Sunday afternoons.
As post-prandial
torpor kicks in eftsoons,
I shall clock in
a good three hours between the sheets.
Yet another
evening to drink the dying color burst
Of a retiring sun
that will bequeath,
The reins of the
sky to the effulgent moon, as it sleeps beneath.
A sight that will
never quench this opacarophile’s thirst.
As the first
drops of Monday Blues trickle,
I will tuck in an
early dinner.
A humble meal
nevertheless an outright winner,
Such as a bowl of
curd rice and lemon pickle.
The last activity,
as I retire to my room,
Will be a long
coming virtual hangout of friends,
From lost halcyon
days of college, it’s time to make amends.
Isolation has
been made far less painful, thanks to Zoom.
COVID-19 has made
the smaller pleasures in life,
Visible by what
is invisible to the eyes.
And teaches us to
spot the blessing in disguise
Even though the
outer world is rife with strife.
On a note so
philosophical, the twin days of peace shall end.
I would have
loved the weekend to tarry,
But there is
nothing to worry,
For after five days it will knock on the door again my friend!
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