June 13, 2021 Commentary again from the porch

 June 13, 2021 Commentary again from the porch: The days go on, slowly like the summer weekends are supposed to be. Things look amazingly like 2019. The memories are getting rewired. We have eluded dystopia; it seems for now. Went out to a restaurant for dinner last night. It took a long time to get the food. And that was OK. Just the sound and the people around, all unmasked, seemed to make the wait bearable. Were we willing to wait at home when the closest thing to the restaurant was a slightly cleaner dining table, all the clutter moved out and space made for a dinner that was not cooked at home, but delivered from the restaurant that is five minutes by car but had become out of bounds. Thus we would prepare the table for the same food that we would be served in the restaurant, a little warmer, perhaps, and the French fries had not become a little soggy or the double-egg chicken roll had not wilted a little. How long were we willing for that dinner? Cooped up at home and eating virtually alone. Not being served, the table not being bussed. Perhaps ask for disposable plates. The best part of going to a restaurant is not having to clear the table or wash the dishes. The lockdowns of 2020 and 2021 had taken out the simple pleasure that many were accustomed to. Restaurants are now open, and food is again being served, maybe takes much longer than it should. But how was the “should” calculated when dining out was actually at home, a respite from the cooking. Then we said that the food should come soon. Very soon. This is why Swiggy exists, or Zomato, or Uber Eats. Relentlessly they worked. Against the wrath of the customer, whose candles for the candle-light dinner had burnt halfway through waiting for Swiggy or Doordash. We know little of this army that fought the COVID-19 War along with many other fighters keeping a new system working. Today, a bondhu reminded me of this through a Bengali song called “Runner.” The ballad tells the story of the famous runners of the Indian postal system at one time when runner would transport packages and letters to remote parts of the country. They always worked with a time pressure and carried the most precious things on their backs without ever touching the things they were carrying for a measly pay. They became the legendary runners just as the person on the scooter that I almost ran over as the scooter swerved through the traffic. And at the PNB traffic island almost ran into me, eliciting a silent curse, in my ignorance, of the important work that person on the scooter doing and the kinds of pressure that person was under. The candle was burning down. It is these forgotten and ignored people that the World will have us forget when COVID-19 is beaten. The Victors write history and even their front-line survivors are forgotten. Just to offer perspective, in the three months between May and July of 2020, only Swiggy delivered nearly 600,000 orders of Chicken Biryani across India. Is this our new runner? [Apologies, this is a Bengali song, but the tempo and the images offer sufficient meaning]

A rough translation of the lyrics:

unning, so the bell is ringing. At night,
Runner is running with the burden of news in his hand,
Runner is running , Runner!
Walking on the streets at night does not know any prohibition.
From Horizon to Horizon the little runner-
he took the job of bringing new news.

Runner! Runner! Today the burden of the
unknown
is on his shoulders, the
burden of the ship runner is on the letters and news;
Runner is
running , I understand it is dawn, louder, louder, O runner, it is formidable.
Like a dream of his life, the forest moves backwards,
more paths, more paths - understanding is red and - east corner.
The stars of the night wonder, flickering in the sky;
How can this runner go fast like a deer!
How many villages, how many roads go to Sore Sare -
the runner must go to the city in the morning;
Lanterns in hand, the fireflies give light
mavaih runner! Still black at night.

In this way, leaving behind many years of life,
the burden of the world has reached the hungry runner 'Mele'.
The sky is tired, the ground is wet with sweat,
they have bought all the nights of life at a low price.
In much sorrow, in much pain, in pride, in affection, in the
house, his beloved wakes up in a sleepless night alone in bed.

Runner! Runner!
When will the day of this burden end?

When will the sun rise at night?
Lack of home; The world seems like black smoke, the
burden of money on the back, yet this money will not be touched, the
night is lonely, how much fear on the way, yet the runner is small, the
fear of robbers, the fear of when the sun rises.
How many letters people write -
how happy, in love, in emotion, in memory, in sorrow and grief.
I don't know if anyone will ever read its letter of grief,
only the grass of the road will know the grief of its life , no one will know
its grief in the city and village,
its words will be covered in the envelope of the black night.
The star's eyes twinkle with pity, -
the letter of sympathy that will send the morning sky to A -
runner! Runner! What will be the burden?
What will happen to the exhaustion of hunger fatigue?
Runner! Runner! It's dawn - the sky is red
When will this sad period be cut short by the touch of light?

Runner! Village runner!
It's time to dump her and move on.
Let's
leave the cowardice behind today with the letter of oath - deliver
this new news,
the 'match' of progress,
I will see it in the morning now -
no, it's not too late anymore,
run, run, run
faster, O runner.