Cinderellas and Juliets of lockdown

 

I woke up as a whiff of sanitiser drifted into my bedroom. I squinted at the draperies parted behind the bed to let in sunlight. Someone was at work by the dressing table, disturbing my hard-fought sleep. A heady smell of cosmetics hung heavy in the air. An overdose of Covid-19 news from the previous day weighed down my body and spirit. In the makeshift newsroom set up in a coroner of my home, my brain has scanned hundreds of thousands of corona-related news items in the past month. I have been reduced to a mangle of agony, anxiety, depression and panic.
I needed a little sleep, a little slumber to shake off the misery that an invisible enemy has brought upon humanity. I shut my eyes tight but the disquiet from the cosmetics corner kept me awake.
"Who is this?" I murmured, eyes still closed.
"Cinderella." Letters rolled down like glass marbles and echoed in my ears. It must be my daughter. Who else would crack such an asinine joke early in the morning?
"What are you doing in my bedroom?"
"Clearing all the cinders and ashes from my hair and face. There's enough sunlight here."
"Which book are you living these days? Come down to earth."
"Truth is stranger than fiction, dad. I have been reduced to a Cinderella in this home, doing all the house chores until I go to bed."
"You guys closed down the kitchen ever since I came here. I am craving for some homely food, while both you and Amma are working from home until past midnight. Dad, can you truly remember the last time you entered the kitchen? Did you ever ask me how I am feeling about life in lockdown? Did you ever ask me if I need some girly stuff to keep myself happy? Did you ever think about my state of mind? I want to volunteer in the war on Covid but don't have a licence yet."
I realised she wasn't kidding. I cringed at her anger, bitterness and disappointment. I rolled in the bed to my left so that I could get a glimpse of her face. She was like a sculptor chiselling to glory.
"But why are are you putting on the makeup when the entire city is closed? It's against the law to go out without a permit."
"Dad, cut the parochial crap. Women dress up for themselves. You think we painstakingly cherry-pick all these cosmetics stuff to please some passersby who ogle at us? Certainly not, sir. When we put on the makeup and pirouette in front of the mirror, there's no once-up-on-a-time prince to watch us. We do it in love for ourselves. Every woman is a princess in her own right. By the way, I have taken a permit to go out. "
Her nimble fingers danced in the air as she picked brushes, pencils and sticks. She slipped into the splendid blue gown that she wore to her brother's wedding a few years ago. Her magical maquillage and a hair set up high under a blue band transformed her into a princess. A real Cinderella.
"Do you have a date? Love in the time of corona or sorts?"
"Don't I look like Cinderella?" She turned on her heels to strike a pose by my bedside.
"Yeah. Cinderella without glass slippers. But whose breakfast ball are you going to gatecrash?"
"Wake up and watch me, dad." I followed the fair maiden as she wore blue latex gloves and a matching face mask, before strutting towards the kitchen. She picked up one of the three trash bags kept in the balcony and strolled out the main door. She turned around to give me a stare as I chuckled: "Cinderella wearing a surgical mask! Put on your scrubs, too, darling."
Heads turned as the lovely lady walked down the cobbled sidewalk towards the litter bin stationed at 100 metres away. A semblance of people in the street and in the balconies and at the windows of nearby homes gasped in awe as she carried each trash bag - one at a time - to the public bin. The lone grocer across the road who delivers her daily ice cream quota, came out to watch his crazy customer's daring act.
The pandemic-era Cinderella held her head tall and looked as if she belonged. She disposed of the gloves in the bin before making her final catwalk and returned backstage.
"You came home wearing both slippers. I thought you would leave one behind for your prince," I said. There was a gleam in her eyes and blush on her cheeks as she retired to her privacy.
I was pouring a drink in the evening when she appeared in an embroidered dress that looked straight from a Shakespearean play. Pre-cut forms in the shape of butterflies, leaves and flowers had been sewed to the night garment with pleats flowing down the chest.
"Come stai (How are you), Signore Capulet?" she asked as she stole a sip from my glass and disappeared into the balcony.
"Capulet?" I raised my eyebrows. "Where are you going?" I almost screamed.
"Da nessuna parte (Nowhere). Where can Juliet go? The Casa di Giulietta is my home and Verona is my place."
"Is it a fancy dress contest or something?" She did not reply. I parted the curtains to see my daughter staring into the eerie dark. She bent over the balustrade and sighed: "Ay me." She then threw her arms in the air and sharpened her ears as if to hear a murmur. A police car asking people to stay home rolled past, followed by a pizza delivery guy.
"My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words
Of thy tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound.
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?"
I heard her sing. "Are you OK, baby," I asked, and let her be alone, doing what she wished to do.
"Good Father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word."
She continued.
"Good Father, it's a sin to savour a drink
Thyself in #StayHome; pour me one, signore "