Suddenly, it seems, we have new faces in the gated community in which we live. Accustomed as we are to smiling and greeting the people we pass when we take those multiple morning rounds to cover our daily quota of ten thousand steps, we are now at a loss.
Who are all these unfamiliar people, we wonder.
Why are they being allowed into the confines of our carefully monitored area at a time when our city is going into lockdown to combat the spread of the coronavirus?
They have now grown into adulthood, moved on to jobs with impossible hours in our own city or to new lives in other parts of the country and the world — and they have definitely not walked along our roads early in the morning for many, many years
Our gates are closed to prevent outsiders from entering, only one member of each family can go out to do “essential” shopping, we stay more than an arm’s length from our walking companions — if we have them at all.
And then these strangers appear!
Who are they and should we be afraid of them and the other “outsiders” they have been in contact with?
Should we discontinue our own walks — once the most enjoyable outing of our day and now the only one — in order to protect ourselves and others or should we bash on regardless in the hope that the exercise and the fresh air will boost our immunity and help us combat infection better?
While we are considering all this, we have already taken a couple of rounds of our gated area. We pass these strangers again. And in keeping with the spirit of that Jim Reeves song we were brought up on, we nod affably and smile, as they do.
“A stranger’s just a friend you do not know”, we say to ourselves — and then we turn back quickly as we realise that all these unrecognisable “strangers”, these aliens in our midst, some bearded, some carrying infants or pushing prams with toddlers or walking puppies on leashes, are the young people we have known for the past two and more decades.
We waved to them as they stood with our son, all of them around age ten, waiting for the school bus. We fed them cake and cookies when they dropped in to play indoor games with him or exchange books and video games. We arbitrated in their fights and umpired in their matches.
We recall their smooth cheeks and high-pitched voices as they raced their cycles along these same roads all those years ago, or practically flew past us on their skateboards, or sometimes made us fetch the football for them when it sailed over the wall of the playground and almost landed on us as we took those long-ago, much brisker walks.
They are not strangers at all.
They have now grown into adulthood, moved on to jobs with impossible hours in our own city or to new lives in other parts of the country and the world — and they have definitely not walked along our roads early in the morning for many, many years.
They may have zipped by in their vehicles as they rushed to and from their gym or the swimming pool or as they made their way to their offices, but we barely caught a glimpse of their changing miens through those passing encounters.
But now, as they remain confined to their homes, working online, unable to go gymming or swimming, they have no choice but to take their chances with us.
We take a step towards them, longing to ask questions of what they have been doing in the years we have missed meeting them.
But we turn away.
We continue on our way.
This is not the time to “catch up”.
It is probably good sense: Safety first for all of us. Yet, we cannot help but rue the fact that this time of global fear of infection makes strangers out of friends rather than the other way around.
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.
