Day 1, Monday, June 8

Trip to Nehru Place

The auto driver willingly sets the meter and drives us to Nehru Place without a hitch. We are used to a gentle world at home, so it seems natural to step out into a larger one that’s just as obliging. We’re on our way to buy a web camera because college interviews are now online and we need a system sans anti-virus support – the old desktop has been cranked up. The mobile phone/tech accessory/laptop market is buzzing, though not overcrowded in the way it usually is. “Second-hand laptop, second-hand laptop,” someone hisses. “Aaiye Madam,” say many other masked men, some with tattoos, some with earrings, some with their beards poking out from under the mask.

We ask for the gadget; it arrives with the price obliterated. We walk down the row, hoping that the next shop, and then the next, will have one with the price intact. No luck. “Aisa hai Madam…,” says a shopkeeper, explaining that these are in great demand now, and “peechhe se aise hi aa raha hai.” We buy the cheapest, at Rs 1,400. Online it is Rs 500, but as we stand amidst the mess: stray dogs, rubble, half-done paving, bread pakora shops, overflowing dustbins, it seems like Delhi is back to its old ways.

The auto ride back confirms this: he says his meter isn’t working, and he will take a couple of tens extra. No one speaks of the past few months or how it has been difficult. It simply isn’t in the city’s nature to feel sorry for itself. It is however, in the city’s nature to make a quick buck when the sun shines. And today, it shines bright, after a previous day of rain.

Day 2, Tuesday, June 9

Trip to Decathlon

It’s 6 pm, and we take an irresponsible 3 kilometre drive to Ansal Plaza – we could have walked really. The road is only about 50% full compared to the traffic nightmare it used to be, and men on bikes, wearing masks but no helmets, breeze by, without having to wind their way through.

The parking lot is surprisingly full, but we manage to get a spot. It reeks of something bad – we’re not sure what. Entry to the mall is through a single door, and there’s a 20-person-long queue outside, and 10 people waiting inside. We think it’s the thekas that are attracting the crowd. It isn’t. Those are empty. It’s Decathlon that everyone’s going to – us too. With speeding vehicles and after a few cyclists had bad experiences with phone snatchings, I think it’s safer to buy a home trainer to convert my bicycle into a stationary bike.

As we wander around wondering whether to stand in the line – it will no doubt take at least 30 minutes for our turn – we look at the signage of Ruin Pub, some of its letters missing, ironically.

The little flyover in front has people walking and running up and down it, and there’s a bunch of people cycling, though the pre-lockdown sweaty basketballers are missing. It seems like people in the neighbourhood have taken it over, to exercise. We decide that a 30-minute wait is too much.

Day 3, Wednesday, June 10

Back to Decathlon

There’s no line outside at 10:30 am, thankfully, but I am greeted on entry to the mall by something that looks like the water storage unit of an RO system. I am instructed to hold my hands under the tap and they are automatically sprayed with sanitiser. My temperature, name, and number are noted.

At the Decathlon door, I am asked whether I have the Arogya Sethu app. I call a friend and vent about how one cannot even try and be fit anymore without the Government knowing. The person at the door is unmoved. He asks that I also download the Decathlon app for payment because the card machines aren’t working, as a colleague asks me to present my hands for sanitisation once again.

Inside, I wonder whether I should have worn gloves to touch stuff; I ask for the trainer. It’s more expensive than I had anticipated, and in the couple of days the store has opened, has sold out! So I walk around the store, looking at neon swim gear that has no purpose this summer. A couple of people are buying resistance bands that are suddenly all the rage now that there’s so much working out from home happening. There’s no trying out of clothes, though they’re still open to exchange.

Day 4, Thursday, June 11

Trip to the salon

It’s like I am going to get an operation. Masked, hazmat suited men and women are all around. They have told me that I can take my own towel and change. I do. There is a strange smell in the waxing room – it’s just been sanitised, says the lady who has been assigned to me. She asks me to tell her when the wax is too hot, because she cannot blow on it. How much we have had to change our habits. They are also not performing threading, because it may push up the risk of transmission. Perhaps this will be a part of our new normal – women with moustaches. Or maybe we will all shave.

Day 5, Friday, June 12

Trip across the border to a Gurugram mall

I need to buy some basics and decide to go to the malls in Gurugram. I open the Uber app after many months. I hadn’t made a previous payment – I do now, and feel bad at having delayed someone’s payment. The driver assigned asks whether the border is open (“Kabhi khol dete hain, kabhi band kar dete hain,” he says, rightly). I say of course it is, indignantly, and then he asks a few more questions that annoy me. We are back to being regular Delhi-ites: rude and suspicious, but we dutifully wear our masks and spray hand sanitiser. Caution is not a Delhi thing; it must be fear. As we are about to get onto NH-8, he remembers his script, “Ma’am, welcome to Uber.” Startled, I laugh, and he tells me he is an engineer in a back office of a multinational firm that has not paid him for three months, so he has taken to driving a cab.

The Gurugram malls are closed, though some have a few shops open. H&M is, and after the ritual temp check and sanitiser dollop, I am free to roam around and try on clothes in the trial room, in a shop that has only the staff. ‘What is the protocol?’ I wonder. ‘Must I keep on underwear and mask?’ At billing there is another sanitiser squeeze. The world will soon get taken over by sanitiser moghuls.

Day 6, Saturday

Trip to Hauz Khas market

The auto driver tells me how there are barely any savaris. On the way, I see people using bus shelters to eat, sleep – did they always do this, or has the lockdown rested our senses, restoring them in some measure, so we are able to see more.

Not much has changed in Hauz Khas, except it is a little more crowded than during the lockdown. The theka though, does not have a 50 people long line like it did a week or so ago. The tailors and fruit sellers have put up their prices, and children with grubby masks beg for food. I head to the tailor to ask about my pyjamas, the staple I need as I WFH. He has not finished them and we have words. The old normal.

Day 7, Sunday

We contemplate going out to eat, so call a few restaurants: Naivedyam, Adyar Ananda Bhavan – no one is open to dine in, despite the fact they’ve been allowed to. I phone Chef Saby (Lavash) and Chef Jiten Malik (Tres). Both say they are waiting for rules to change, the virus to abate, people to begin stepping out for a meal, staff – some of whom have left town – to be ready to return. With no alcohol allowed and restaurants having to shut by 9 pm, how will Delhi show her peacock-ery? We stay in; go for a walk instead. Walking has almost become a distraction, ensuring I am fitter through the lockdown. The new normal, I hope.