The silence in the 2BHK flat was thick, a blanket woven from unspoken anxieties and unacknowledged sadness. It was just me, Vinay, a perpetually restless soul trying to outrun the shadow of depression, and
Anasooya, my sister-in-law, a quiet, almost ethereal presence who seemed to carry the weight of the world on her delicate shoulders.
My psychologist’s voice, crackling through the phone during our weekly sessions, had become a lifeline. “Stay safe, Vinay,” she’d urged, “and try to connect with Anasooya. Building relationships can be a
powerful tool against isolation.” Easier said than done, I thought. I had tried, making stilted attempts at conversation, but each time, Anasooya’s sad, downcast gaze would extinguish any spark of enthusiasm I managed to conjure. She retreated further into her shell, and I, defeated, would retreat into the digital abyss of my phone.
Anasooya wasn’t much of a cook. Her meals were functional but lacked any real flavor. As a hostel boy, I was used to surviving on questionable fare, so I ate them without complaint, my stomach a seasoned veteran in the battle of blandness. One evening, while aimlessly scrolling through YouTube, a thumbnail caught my eye – a cheerful fellow, wielding a spatula and a wide grin, under the title “Bachelor Cook: Simple Recipes for the Stressed and Starving.” The idea sparked like a tiny flame in the dimness of my mood. With lockdown restrictions still in place, I ordered the necessary groceries online and, with a newfound sense of purpose, decided to try my hand at a simple dal tadka.
The aroma filled the flat, a welcome change from the usual quiet. When I hesitantly offered Anasooya a plate, she took it with a wary glance. After a few tentative bites, she looked up, her eyes widened slightly, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “I am a far better cook than you, Vinay,” she said, a genuine chuckle escaping her lips. The sound, however brief, was like a melody to my ears. This was the first time I’d seen her laugh, and the impact was profound, a small victory in my silent war.
The next day, the silence returned, but this time, it was different, laced with a heavy, unsettling lethargy. Anasooya was feverish, coughing, her face flushed. The dreaded news came swiftly – COVID-
19. A wave of panic washed over me, but amidst the fear, a sense of responsibility emerged. Anasooya was confined to her room, isolated and vulnerable. I stepped up, the hostel boy, now the caretaker. I meticulously followed the doctor’s instructions, armed with a thermometer, a box of paracetamol, and a newfound resolve. I cleaned, cooked (my newfound cooking skills put to good use), and made sure her needs were met.
The doctor, during his visit, was reassuring yet firm. “Seven days of strict isolation,” he’d said, “Plenty of rest and fluids. You’ll need to be her support, Vinay.” So I was. I’d leave plates of home-cooked concoctions outside her door, trying to infuse some cheer into the situation. I’d tell her about the day, my voice sometimes faltering with exhaustion, but always trying to maintain a level of positivity. The flat, once a silent battleground of unspoken sadness, was now filled with the clatter of pots and pans and the rhythmic sound of my footsteps, moving between the kitchen and her room.
The seven days stretched into a blur. Gone was the introverted girl, replaced by a fragile patient relying on me. The irony wasn’t lost on me, the depressed boy, now a beacon of stability and support. The silence was different now, filled with the unspoken understanding of shared vulnerability instead of the awkwardness of strangers. We were no longer just two people sharing a flat; we were now bound by a shared experience, a silent understanding built on the foundations of illness, laughter, and a bowl of