I remember writing about 2019 a few months ago, writing about how so much happened in the year and yet it felt inconsequential, like the year didn't matter at all. The year felt like it was the calm before a storm, a nadir before the zeniths of the years to come.
Well, I guess that's where we are right now. The metaphorical storm of my writing has taken a form that I couldn't quite imagine, and I still can't quite fathom right now. Everyone is at home, ironically outside their comfort zone; some scared, some anxious, some uncertain. The weird thing about things like these are that you're not scared by what's happening. You're scared because you know when it started, but you don't know when it will end. Or if it will end.
I remember reading about how sitcom writers used to adopt a flip-trick on their shows, where they would take away the main tropes or skills of their characters and see what unfolds after that. I feel like something similar is happening to the world right now. Delhi, the capital, full of symbols of unity, saw itself explode in communal hate. Mumbai, the city that never stopped, came to a complete standstill shortly after.
The last 4 months have felt more like a year than the entirety of 2019 did. Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing, perhaps only time will tell.