The Symptom

During my monthly ironing session, I listened to a YouTube playlist (and I remembered)...

Lobo sang ‘The End of the World’ (she told me she had to leave her love, not me, to marry a man of her caste); ShaNaNa, Air Supply, BeeGees (waiting at Mysore bus stand, ditched at Charles de Gaulle, overnight stay at ISBT Delhi...she always had an excuse not to show up); I didn’t let The Beautiful South sing ‘Rotterdam’ (she died the last time I heard it); ‘Piyu Bole’ (I told her to switch off the mp3 player and let me sleep); Sophia Loren sang ‘Mambo Italiano’ (a Neapolitan lady made pizza for me, without a smile, I wasn’t the first thirty year old to come-of-age in her pizzeria);...

Breaking news came on at the end of the session: “...a symptom if you have the virus is when you can’t put a face or name to the people in your memories...” That was interrupted when the newsreader was dragged out with him shouting, “...the nation needs to know...”