When the world hit pause

What we lost, what we found and what we held on to.

The room is brimming with laughter and lively chatter.

On stage, the singer sways to a Lata Mangeshkar tune, her voice flowing effortlessly through the crowd. The buffet table overflows with an elaborate spread—plates filling up with yellow dal, fluffy chawal, and warm, syrupy jalebis.

At the round tables, heads lean in close, conversations rising and falling like a melody of their own. Friends hug and pose for pictures. Moments slowly turn into memories.

From my seat in the middle of the room, I take it all in.

Oh, the joy of being together!

Five years ago, this was the dream we ached for—a distant hope, just out of reach.

***

The year is 2020. Ringing in the new year felt special—a new decade, a fresh start filled with possibilities.

By mid January, the excitement and hope for the new decade were slowly fading. Winter was in full swing and people continued with their lives, caught up in the usual rhythm.

After a long, winding career in tech, I had decided the new decade was the perfect time to step away from tech work and explore what I wanted to do next—travel for a while and uncover what’s next for me — an Eat Pray Love moment, maybe?

Little did I know, my Eat Pray Love moment would unfold right here at home, surrounded by the chaos and comfort of family.

Little did I know, instead of setting off on a journey of self-discovery, I would spend the year navigating the everyday challenges of life.

***

My friend, Disha was taking her class of first graders to the playground for their daily outdoor activity when she noticed little Minha sitting quietly in a corner, tears in her eyes. Disha asked her what was going on, and Minha whispered,

“My family in Korea is stuck at home with a virus. I’m scared it will come here, and we’ll get stuck and fall sick too.“

Disha smiled at the little girl’s innocent concern. She went over, grabbed a globe, and showed Minha where Korea was. Then she pointed to California, showing how they were exactly on opposite corners of the world.

“Don’t worry,” Disha reassured her, “the virus is too small to travel all the way across the globe. We’re safe.“

Minha’s eyes twinkled with joy upon hearing this, and within minutes, she was off to play with her friends on the swing.

Little did we know that we were gradually moving into an alternate reality—one that would become the norm for the next few years and change everything forever.

***

By February 2020, news of the virus began trickling into U.S. media. And by early March, rumors swirled about its silent spread across the country.

People began hoarding food and supplies, and grocery stores quickly ran out of stock. Masks, sanitizing wipes, hand sanitizers, and gloves were added to the shopping carts.

I remember walking into Target multiple times, searching for sanitizing wipes, only to be met with rows of empty shelves. I remember making early morning trips, timing them with the truck deliveries, hoping to grab a fresh pack before they disappeared.

I remember rushing to the wipes section, spotting the very last packet—only to see three hands reach for it at the same time. And I remember the kindness of an elderly Muslim grandma, who, despite the frenzy, stepped back and let me have it.

I remember the whispers of a lockdown and rushing to the grocery store. The checkout lines snaked all the way to the entrance, and I waited for three hours before finally getting out.

Hubby, who had been waiting outside, was visibly upset with me, constantly wondering if I had already caught the virus just from standing in that line. But the “woman instincts” in me kicked into high gear, and I felt the need to brave the virus—making sure we stocked up on supplies so I could feed my family.

By the second week of March, our son’s school was closed and his classes were moved online for a week as a precaution due to the virus outbreak. Hubby’s office calls shifted to virtual meetings, too.

We were all excited about this unexpected staycation. What we didn’t realize was that this staycation would turn into a long vacation—one where the destination was our home, and the scenery was what we saw on our TV screens and social media.

Our world would suddenly shrink from the entire globe to just our home, with a tiny peep hole into the rest of the world through the digital platforms.

***

Computers and monitors were shuffled around, and new workspaces sprouted in various parts of the house. I set up in the guest room, my husband took over the loft, and the dining table turned into my son’s classroom.

Our days began with each of us retreating into our own little caves, while Coco happily trotted between us, overjoyed to have everyone home.

We watched in horror as a president turned the pandemic into a tragic comedy with his handling of the crisis. Somehow, our daily dose of absurdity came straight from the White House. We gasped when he casually suggested using disinfectant to treat the ‘China virus’.

We formed new rituals, like watching Cuomo’s daily briefings on the state’s response to the virus. The news outside was grim, and we balanced the media frenzy with shows like Schitt’s Creek and Monk. They became our escape—helping to calm our nerves, giving us a reason to chuckle.

We learned to wear masks, fumbling at first to figure out which side went out and which side faced in.

I remember taking masks for Pappa whenever I visited India, so he could wear them while seeing his patients. Back then, they were hard to find there. I’d scour pharmacy shelves here, digging through the bottom racks to find the last few tucked away.

How quickly things changed.

Masks went from rare to essential, from an oddity to the norm. Once, Pappa stood out when he wore one. Now, the whole world did.

Celebrities released videos on the “right way” to wash hands.

Growing up Indian, mummy would insist on washing hands and changing into home clothes as soon as we got back. I rolled my eyes every single time. Turns out, it took a pandemic to finally get my act together. And now, my son has turned into a neat freak too.

We watched in horror as stories unfolded of bodies being dumped, hospitals overflowing, and ventilators running out.

Doctors shared their exhausting and fearful experiences—working long hours, protecting themselves from their families by staying in separate tents, and refraining from hugging or even going near loved ones because they were on the frontlines with COVID patients for so long.

We watched as stats surged and the government fought over mask mandates, stay-at-home rules, and lockdown measures.

In disbelief, we saw how the higher-ups downplayed the situation, making it worse by not taking things seriously. From there, it only went downhill.

***

We went for walks outside, wearing masks, and breathing through them while walking was so hard. I craved fresh air, the kind that would fill my lungs without any barriers.

Birds chirped, and the sky, clearer than ever, turned a vibrant blue with less pollution. We’d stop to smell every rose in the neighborhood while Coco sniffed around every bush and marked his territory.

I leaned into my spiritual practices more—after all, there were no excuses now. Time had suddenly become a luxury, available at a heavily discounted price.

I cleaned out my closet, then moved on to decluttering every nook and corner of the house.

We talked to our neighbors from the front porch. On our walks, we started chatting with more neighbors, and unexpectedly forging new friendships in the process.

When my neighbor got COVID before the vaccines were available, we panicked. We brought them test kits and food supplies, leaving them at the doorstep. Thankfully, they survived.

We worried about our old neighbor, Jon, whom we hadn’t seen in a while. We used to have small chats when he walked through the neighborhood in his flashy green jacket. Thanks to Nextdoor and a DM to his family, we were relieved to learn he was staying with his family in another state during this ordeal.

Getting a slot on Instacart for Costco felt like winning the lottery. We’d stay up till midnight for the slots to open. My neighbor and I would exchange our lists based on who was lucky enough to score a spot that day. Phone calls with friends revolved around who managed to get their hands on the coveted delivery.

Going to Costco was a family mission. One person drove, another opened the truck, and I went in armed with masks and gloves. Ears hurt, noses hurt and the foggy glasses were the least of my worries.

Like everyone else, we followed the trend—wiping down every item with sanitizing wipes and leaving some in the garage for a while, just to let the virus dissipate.

When the world hoarded toilet paper, we all laughed about it. We had bidets. Clearly, we were ahead of the roll!

Some stores, like Trader Joe’s, stuck to their old-world charm, refusing to offer online shopping. They set up gazebos outside to shade waiting shoppers.

Grocery bills hit an all-time high as I stocked up on pasta and pizza bases, doing my best to limit trips.

Reusable bags became relics of the past – at least for a while.

We turned our grocery runs into strategic missions—figuring out the best time to go when the lines were shortest and the crowds thinnest.

Instead of trying to do it all, I cherished the time I got to spend with my son before he headed off to college. As the world grew sicker and the drama unfolded, we turned inward, focusing on what we had around us.

We cooked and cooked. I found myself experimenting with burgers and pizza for the first time—Beyond Burgers to the rescue! I even made milkshakes—strawberry and watermelon—trying new things I’d never thought to make before.

I’d never imagined I’d be able to survive on my own home-cooked meals for 8 weeks straight.

For someone who was never into cooking, I found myself carefully crafting modakkam and ada—making the dough from scratch, spreading it on banana leaves snipped from the neighbor’s tree that had stretched into our side and steaming them.

Who am I becoming? Is this virus messing with my chemistry and DNA?

***

April arrived, bringing with it our annual Vishu celebrations. This year, however, looked very different—takeout containers replaced the traditional home-cooked feast served on a banana leaf.

We ordered ‘samudra sadhya,’ a lavish spread where every dish featured seafood. The packages sat outside for a while before we meticulously wiped them down with Lysol and brought them in.

Still, we made it special—pulling out our fancy dishes and plating them beautifully. For a moment, we pretended we were dining at a restaurant, making the best of an unusual celebration.

I missed my monthly music events. With everything going virtual, I began experimenting with home videos, learning GarageBand, and diving into all the tools I could get my hands on, to create.

Online events kept the creative spirit alive, but I still missed the equipment, the sound, and the raw energy of live performances. Practicing duets over Zoom calls was a challenge, with the constant lag.

Meanwhile, many musicians in India were struggling, and I saw countless charity concerts being organized to support them. I remember doctors who were also singers, coming together week after week, using music as a way to escape the stress of their work and find some relief.

I also missed the libraries and bookstores—my sanctuaries when I needed a break from the tech world. I longed for those quiet hours spent browsing the aisles, losing myself in books.

I missed our Saturday morning visits to the farmers’ market, tasting samples, exchanging coins, and chatting with the farmer women. The warmth of the morning sun on my face, walking around with a cup of chai, sampling honey and fruit from the Tupperware bowls the farmers set out. Those small, simple joys felt so distant, and I couldn’t wait to return to them.

We stayed in touch with family and friends over the video calls and zoom chats. Instagram became a source of relaxation and entertainment, at least for a while—until it eventually turned into endless ‘doomscrolling’.

When I first started working from home in the early 2010s, it felt like a novelty. Many companies were hesitant, only allowing it one day a week, if at all. But now, it has become a mainstream way of life. It’s crazy to think how we all adapted so quickly.

My dear friend lost her dad in the midst of the lockdown and couldn’t make it to India in time. I couldn’t let this pass without seeing her.

I braved everything, went over, and hugged her—then spent the next few hours wondering if that hug was going to kill me.

While we lived a safe and privileged life working in tech, many people around us were struggling. I couldn’t help but feel guilty—here we were, staying safely inside our homes and working remotely, while the world around us seemed to be falling apart. It felt surreal to be in this bubble while so many were fighting to survive.

The virus slowly began to take over India. I was terrified for Pappa who was living by himself there. I was worried about his mental state living alone, with temples and social activities shut down.

How was he going to manage? Will I ever see him again?

I called him every day, trying to reassure him that this was only temporary. He closed down his medical practice, and his days started to blur into one another.

I turned to my prayers, asking God not to leave him alone and to protect him. I prayed for Pappa, for aunty, for everyone who was going through this ordeal.

So many people lost their loved ones and couldn’t even see their loved ones’ bodies or perform the last rites.

I begged God not to take anyone away from me, not yet.

***

The months went by, and we all wondered if there was an end to this.

We pulled out the instruments—flute, guitar—that were hibernating in the depths of the closet. Messy notes filled the air.

Hair grew longer, turning into man buns and messy knots. My hair had never been this long in all the decades I’ve lived. Trimming hair at home became the new norm.

Beards flourished, eyebrows went unwaxed, and the grays started to pop out. We relied on home remedies to cover them up.

We baked, we goofed around, we fought, we cried.

We drove each other crazy, but we also held on to each other every time we watched the news or scrolled through the madness on social media.

Everyone pitched in—doing laundry, cleaning, unloading the dishwasher, helping with baking and chopping.

To stay active, we got creative. When boredom hit, we played Chinese Checkers. We even invented a new form of exercise for Coco—a football game right in the middle of the house.

My husband tended to the garden, and now, five years later, we have this lush green space.

We took long drives to nowhere, parking our SUV to watch the sunset. The streets were eerily quiet, stores closed. It was like the world was holding its breath.

Spotify became our best friend, the soundtrack to our days in isolation.

Online Zoom classes popped up for everything and anything. ‘You’re on mute’ became the most frequently uttered phrase on calls.

Graduations, weddings, and funerals all moved online—milestones, celebrations, and farewells shared through the glow of a screen.

People found clever ways to keep going with projects and work that had been unexpectedly stalled. Movies were made with just iPhones, and editing was done in the most ingenious ways.

We learned new words like ‘quarantine,’ ‘pandemic,’ and ‘social distancing,’ which quickly became part of our daily vocabulary. ‘Unprecedented‘ was even named the Word of the Year for 2020. After all, we were all living in unprecedented times.

No matter where we were in the world, whether I was on calls with my colleagues in Serbia, India, or another part of the world, we all shared one common topic to talk about.

A delightful silver lining of the pandemic was the surge in animal adoptions. In the midst of isolation, people sought comfort and companionship, and what better company than the loyal, four-legged kind?

We got to meet our colleagues’ pets and kids online, often making unexpected guest appearances during meetings. Barking dogs, curious toddlers, and even the occasional cat walking across the keyboard became part of the meetings.

We watched TV anchors and weathermen reporting from the comfort of their homes. We got a rare peek into their homes. Suddenly, the world felt both distant and oddly intimate at the same time.

Dressed up from the waist up while rocking pajamas below was trending.

We witnessed one of the most hilarious ‘Zoombombing’ moments of all time when a serious BBC interview turned into unexpected comedy. Tiny tots barged into the room mid-broadcast, followed by a frantic woman swooping in to drag them out and shut the door—all in real time, on air. The clip went viral, perfectly capturing the chaos of the times – working from home with kids.

As days blurred into one another, merging into eventless weeks and stretching into lull months, every day felt like a ‘blursday.’

By the end of the year, companies began rolling out vaccines, and that became the hot topic of conversation. Who managed to get an appointment? Who was still waiting?

Getting the shot felt like lining up for the latest iPhone release—competitive, uncertain, and full of anticipation.

We exchanged notes on side effects. Some felt exhausted and feverish, while others barely noticed a thing. Every jab brought a mix of relief and hope, inching us closer to a world that felt a little more normal.

My cousin and his family, who had come to the U.S. for a short trip, were stranded when the borders to Singapore closed. What was meant to be a brief stay turned into an unexpected, extended wait as the world outside kept shifting. When he finally returned to Singapore after 2 years, he had to quarantine for two weeks in a tiny hotel before he could finally head home.

***

By 2021, we all had that bittersweet realization that life was moving forward. We cautiously began seeing friends again—this time in open parks, masked up and socially distanced. We talked, laughed, and shared jokes, feeling the weight of isolation slowly lift.

That first in-person meeting was a relief, a breath of fresh air—quite literally. The first fist bump felt surreal, then came the hesitant first hug.

And eventually, we took our first outings and trips without a mask—hesitant at first, then with growing confidence—marking the beginning of our return to normalcy.

Some of us struggled to be in bigger groups after the pandemic.

I, for one, have turned into a bit of a hermit—I need an extra nudge to step out and be in large gatherings. I’ve come to cherish the coziness of home and its familiar comforts.

Instead of big crowds, I’ve found my small circle, the ones I truly connect with. We stay in touch, meet up, and make our own kind of fun.

Our first trip to India felt surreal. When I saw Pappa at the airport, I hugged him a little longer than usual, holding on as if to make up for all the lost time. I had prayed so much for this moment, and now that it was here, I could hardly believe it.

Stepping into our home in India was bittersweet. Pappa had managed it all alone, but the signs of isolation was evident. I spent two weeks clearing out the old, stagnant clutter—broken furniture, untouched corners filled with dust and memories.

We went around town, picked out a new sofa, and rearranged the space, breathing fresh life into the home. I wanted to make his life a little more comfortable, a little lighter.

***

It’s been five years since we all measured time in quarantine days. Today, I barely think about those days—but the echoes of that time remain.

We have friends who lost a parent and had to travel to India wrapped in layers of protection. We have friends who couldn’t go at all and who watched their parent’s funeral on their phone, the closest they could get to saying goodbye. They were left to grieve from afar.

I remember reading about the heartbreaking texts a mom—a nurse—sent to her daughter in New Jersey before she passed away from Covid in those early, chaotic weeks. I wonder how the daughter carries on now, living with that gaping hole.

My son’s friend lost his dad from a complication from one of the vaccines—the same one that saved millions of lives also took someone we had shared dinners with. That sting never really faded.

A legendary Indian singer passed away from the complications of Covid. Yet, his voice lives on—in the songs we hum, the melodies that fill our homes, and the nostalgia that lingers on our long drives.

Restaurants and stores we once loved now exist only in memory—the little Portuguese fish shop with its freshest catch, the beloved Singaporean restaurant where the roti prata melted in our mouths, and Fish Market with its perfectly cooked sea bass entrée—all gone, casualties of the pandemic frenzy.

These weren’t just eateries; they were backdrops to milestones and gatherings.

We brought out-of-town friends there, built weekend rituals around them. Now, they’ve vanished, and driving past those empty spaces is a quiet reminder of what once was.

***

I know much of what I’ve written here are experiences most people went through—things we all saw, felt, and lived. So why write it at all?

Because five years later, we’ve moved on. The struggles, the uncertainty, the small joys that carried us through—it’s all fading, slipping into the background of time.

I wanted to document it, to have one place where I can return, read, remember and share. Before it becomes just another blur in the rearview mirror.

I wanted to hold onto what we lived through, what we came out of. And in doing so, maybe jog your memory too.

Five years ago, we distanced ourselves out of necessity. Now, we’ve distanced ourselves in a different way—fully immersed in the new normal we’ve created.

Looking back, I realize how fleeting time can be. Things can change in an instant and it doesn’t take that much for the world to fall apart. We have to do the things we really want to do, live in alignment with what we really crave for, like there is no tomorrow. Do the things that matter to each of us.

The pandemic surely has made us all rethink what’s most important in life.

The past few years have taught me to never take anything for granted and to cherish my loved ones. Take the time to meet your friends—don’t let ‘busy’ be the excuse that keeps you apart. I wish we had gone out for more dinners with the friend we lost.

Life is back to normal. A new normal that we have each defined for ourselves. For some, that is doing less things better. For some it’s been revenge travel. Yet others choose to explore the comforts around the home town.

Some redefined what a fun evening and hanging out with friends meant for them, it doesn’t have to be elaborate dinner parties with dance and DJ, it could be cozying up at home and chilling with your family and reading a book. I know a cousin who still doesn’t go into big crowds and prefers to be home and make a call instead of traveling.

While some carry burnt memories of the pandemic, for others it was a story they can always tell their grandkids. And, for the loved ones of the roughly 1 million Americans who died from the virus, life will forever feel incomplete.

I wonder how often the pandemic crosses people’s minds now. Will we survive another pandemic? Well, I sure hope we don’t have one, but somehow I am not scared anymore. We survived one and it makes me feel invincible.

Working from home concept changed forever. Now, after 5 year,s companies are demanding people to get back. And people are whining and complaining. The great resignation is a clear sign of what the world wanted.

When we beat ourselves up about the million things that went wrong in the day, maybe we should take a moment to think, ‘How lucky I am to be alive amidst an event where we lost more than 1 million people, to still have my family intact and spared by the virus.’

As we navigate our life without second thoughts, let’s all take a moment to go back to those days and think how privileged we are to be able to go out, get groceries, meet people, hug, and sing and travel. When so many around us lost that privilege forever due to a monster that we never even met.

Covid shots are rolling out, new strains still emerge, but thankfully, none of it makes the headlines anymore. They’ve lost their novelty—just like the latest iPhone updates.

Back then, a cough in public meant side-eyes and paranoia. Now, it’s just another allergy season.

The pandemic revealed just how deeply connected we are, in ways we never imagined. No one truly lives in isolation—what happens in one corner of the world inevitably ripples across to the other. Sooner or later, the domino will topple.

It reminded us that behind every celebration, every event, and every meal, there is an entire ecosystem of people making it happen.

When I look at a grain of rice, I see a web of communities that came together to grow it, harvest it, and bring it to my plate.

When I watch a grand event like the Super Bowl, I don’t just see the players on the field—I see the hotel workers, the street vendors, the food caterers, the cab drivers, and everyone in between who makes it happen.

When I see the temple festivities in Kerala, I see the flower seller, the elephant caretaker, the oil lamp maker, the drummers, the priests, the tailors stitching the vibrant umbrellas and on and on.

Five years later, I don’t panic when I hear the word ‘pandemic.’ But I do know this: I’ll never take a shared meal, a deep breath, or an open door for granted again.

And to this day, I never let the groceries run too low. There’s always a backup—an extra packet. Just in case.