A1. At a personal level, worrying about my mum, balancing work and home, trying not to worry about the kids, missing hugs
At a larger level, being devastated by how a generation of good work came undone, and wondering what the future holds for us all. #MyHealthChat
A2. Oddly, it's been my Twitter family that's been my greatest solace. Too many to name and I wouldn't want to leave anyone out.
With my real life friends, I've been the one offering support. #MyHealthChat
A3. Perhaps it is because they've been accessible that I've relied on my Twitter family so much. Or maybe because they are so giving.
I'm an introvert, so with real life friends, it's been hard knowing when they need me, though I've tried. #MyHealthChat
A4. That have been there for me. They have just been there. I don't know how they know, becuase I'm not good at asking, but they've appeared when I most needed them. #MyHealthChat
A5. Listen to them. Watch out for them. Tell them you care- don't just assume they know.
Times are hard. We need to make that extra effort. For themselves and for us.
The last few months have been difficult for us.
We have been trying to cope with too many uncertainties; the Pandemic, the Lockdown, the Economic downturn, and the plight of the migrants that for the first time brought stories of acute poverty into our homes.
Though it took a toll on our Mental Health, we were not able or willing to acknowledge it.
To stand up and say, "I am not okay. I need time off to recover", was difficult in an environment, where you are expected to pop a pill and turn up even if you are sick
People lost loved ones to suicide, and blamed themselves for not knowing. But most people are not really equipped to go beyond the mask that their loved ones don to hide their real mental state.
With nearly half the academic year over, and no sign of the pandemic letting up, the natural question one asks is, ‘when should schools reopen?’
From the pandemic management standpoint, the answer is simple- not anytime soon.
But can the answer really be that simple?
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Despite restrictions on the activities that are allowed, the number of new cases is still going up every day. There is still very little awareness among the general public on how to adopt preventive practices.
At this stage, opening up schools can colleges can be calamitous.
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When the first wave was over, schools and colleges reopened in some countries, but in almost all of them, they were forced to close down again after the number of people testing positive went up.
It is hard to keep the infection under control once schools and colleges reopen.
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A mask is like a sanitary napkin. It is uncomfortable. You don't like it. You long for the day when you no longer have to wear it. Yet, you have no choice but to wear it.
But that's not all; there are other similarities between the two.
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You cannot wear a sanitary napkin and forget about it. You must replace it when it gets saturated or after 6 hours.
Same with masks. You have to change it after a few hours, or risk contamination from the pathogens that stick to the mask.
Dispose responsibly and wash hands.
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Neither offers 100% protection.
Sanitary napkins leak. That doesn't mean you stop using them; you find the one best suited for your need.
You pick your mask after assessing the conditions where you will wear. Most commercially available mask are sufficient for 'regular' use.
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Growing up in a mining colony in the 1970, your defining identity was that of an Indian. At home, we spoke different languages, worshipped different gods and celebrated different festivals, but outside, we were Indian.
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“Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Isai. Aapas mein hai bhai bhai”, was not just a slogan for us. From the sheer diversity of food each of our kitchens churned out, to the festivals that were celebrated, everything was a living personification of “Unity in Diversity/ Unekta mein Ekta”.
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As we grew older, we continued to see the country through our ‘Indian’ lenses. The food we ate, the movies we watched, even the people we dated; everything was cosmopolitan, secular, Indian. Our Indianness was our identity, and we viewed everything through our secular lens.
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When I entered the formal workforce in the mid 1990s, it was a male territory. Yes, there were women in middle and senior management, but the physical and mental spaces were male.
You were often the only woman in the team, and to be accepted you had be as male as the men.
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Cigarette breaks in the landing were often the time when those outrageous ideas were thrown about and trashed like they couldn't be in a formal meeting room. Whether you smoked or not, you took those breaks because you didn't want to miss out.
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That often meant looking away when the latest "chick" was discussed. Far from objecting to it, you secretly took pride in the fact that you were accepted as "yourself" and not as a representative of your gender.
Looking back, it was so wrong, but that's how it was.
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December 6, 1992.
I was in the final year of college when karsevaks climbed the dome of the Babri Masjid and brought it down. I watched in shock and horror, but there was little else I could do.
The press condemned it, there were editorials written, but gradually it died down.
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Everyone I knew condemned the demolition of the mosque, and I certainly believed that the people who had destroyed the structure were a fringe element.
What I didn't realise then was that the India I had grown up in was changing in ways I couldn't fathom.
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A lot happened in the years since then.
Hindutva established itself as a mainstream political ideology. Vigilante crimes against Muslims got normalised. The Ayodhya case dragged on in the courts.
Through it all, I hoped that at least in the Court, justice would be done.
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