The changed rules on mingling: Two is a party, three a crowd

The way we step back into the world best reveals our social side. After a period of prolonged isolation – sometimes with a loved one, sometimes with an unloved one, and mostly all by oneself – we now have to plan our comeback. At first we place a foot out gingerly, but then we are sprinting out of the door.

We were dying for the world to get back to normal for so long that we are prematurely jumping ship. The safety of our homes now reeks of cement and carpet, we have counted every thread in every curtain, the crockery has been washed and the cutlery polished. Now we just want out. ‘Anywhere but here’ is the new family motto. Emotionally-charged, we rush out in response to the slightest invitation.

We have been to weddings where the bride wore PPE, we travelled in flights with helmets on, we shake hands with gloves on… As we slowly return to Mother Earth, we are aware of the changed rules on mingling. Two is a party, three a crowd.

In restaurants, we look for outdoor ones. We sternly specify six feet between us and other diners; Amitabh Bachchan should be able to lie in the middle. We want enough hand sanitiser for us to bathe in. Given mask envelopes, we look confused. The envelope provider does not blink. He knows we have to remove masks to eat or drink – mainly drink – and is all like ‘you do the math’.

We play with the mask, letting it dangle from one ear. The mask must go with our shirt collar or middle button; the mask decides what we wear. We are secretly affronted when asked to mask up in crowded spaces, because we want to say it first.

We remember to socially distance from time to time, making us dancers in a new dance where we dart forward and then lean back at a whim. To hug or not to hug is the new question. When conversation flags, we are very conscientious about angling our head away, but when we are the ones telling the funny story, we laugh in everyone’s face.

The menu is online and so we all go click-click with our phone cameras, but still have to speak to place orders as we cannot mime. When we snatch bill from each other in the end, we end up holding hands with the waiter too.

All service staff – at pubs, parlours, shops – impassively watch us privileged lot making a big fuss over maintaining hygiene. We scrutinize them and go ‘gotcha’ if they break a single rule, pretending virtuously that we want to set new-age socializing examples. Above the mask their eyes are deadpan; it could mean ‘I love you’ or ‘I can kill you’.

In clubs and cafes, we meet each other like we just got out of jail, giggling light-headedly. Each outing carries the secret pathos of the Last Supper. We jabber jabber jabber, all the time expecting Judas to come kissing.