1.12 am

I'm sleeping by myself again. Tonight I'm on the couch. It was quite the task to get Rohit to give it up. Sometimes I just wish he listened to me without requiring a rebuttal. But I suppose he feels the exact same way about me. At least today worked in my favor. He came back home from work, and he is now sleeping comfortably on the bed.

I know what this looks like. I'm not picking a bone with him just to annoy him. He's too tall for the couch. I can see how he squeezes himself to fit its length. It can't make for restful sleep. And we all know that he needs to be well-rested. He's a doctor. People's lives depend on him.  

Things between us aren't awkward. I would be lying if I said I didn't expect it. But as usual, I was wrong, again. I've come to believe that Rohit has this superhuman ability to not react to emotions. I guess it's what they teach you in med-school. Lesson 101. Keeping your emotions in check. This is exactly what makes Rohit a fantastic doctor. It's also exactly what makes Rohit a lousy husband.

"Mom. I just hate that man!" I was back home, staying with my Mom for the weekend. And like an average wife, I chose to tattle on my husband.

My mother rolled her eyes, just the way she always did, when I complained about Rohit.

"Now what has that poor boy done?"

"You always side with him." I scowled. Life wasn't fair. All I had was Mom and now Rohit had stolen her from me too.  I turned to look at my mother and saw her eyes sparkle. She wasn't seeing me as a 32-year-old married woman, but instead as a five-year-old kid fighting over not wanting to share her favorite toy. She smiled. Her daughter hadn't grown up at all. She held my hand, drew me towards her, and made me sit beside her on the couch.

"Tell me."

"We had a fight. I broke some dishes. And he didn't scream." My Mom was mortified. Had she raised a hooligan?

"What? Sona, what's wrong with you? Stop throwing tantrums. He's not your producer and you're not the star of his show. Behave like a wife," she admonished.

"Mom, listen to what I said. I said he didn't react."

"So?"

"Isn't that weird? He should've reacted. He should've gotten angry. But he simply walked away. And when he came back for dinner, it was as if nothing had ever happened."

"Thank God," she lifted her hands in a prayerful gesture. "You're lucky you have a sensible husband. I'm not sure I can say the same for him." She was mad at me for throwing a tantrum. I couldn't meet her eyes.

"Mom," I said, my eyes wandering everywhere else around the house, "that's abnormal."

"No Sona, you're abnormal. You're constantly pushing him over the edge to try and get a reaction. Don't do that. It doesn't bode well for marriage. Every human being has their limit. His might be higher, but it still exists. "

When has a 32-year-old independent woman ever found the need to take her mother's advice seriously, no matter how sensible? She wasn't there. She doesn't understand. But that day I was the one who didn't understand, or rather didn't want to understand.

I get up and walk to the shelf where my Mom's and Rohit's picture is lying. I pick it up and try talking to my Mom. "I'm sorry Mom. Sorry for not listening to you. Sorry for letting things go so wrong. But please tell me what I should do now? I promise I'll listen to everything you say. Please tell me, how do I get him back?"

I'm crying. I don't know why. I don't even know if these are tears of frustration or remorse. Perhaps they are a little bit of both. They are also tears of grief. It's been eight months since Mom passed away. And not a day goes by when I don't miss her.

And although I don't want to admit it in front of Rohit, I'm scared too. I don't want to lose him and yet I somehow feel it's already too late.

"Is it Mom?" I ask the photo. "Is it too late?"

A faint voice, a memory from far away dislodges in my brain and makes its presence felt. "Sona, where there is a will, there is a way."  If there's anything I've learnt from her, it is to not give up. I peek and the photo again and look at Rohit's smiling face, full of love for the woman standing next to him. I smile through my tears and fears.

"I know I've messed up Rohit, but please give me one more chance. I promise everything will be fine. You won't have to be scared anymore."

I wipe my tears. With renewed energy, I grab my coverlet from the couch and make my way into the bedroom. If we're going to stay married then we need to stop pretending we're not. I place the coverlet on the bed and cozy up right next to him. He absently places his hand over my stomach and draws me closer. I smile a happy smile and close my eyes.

*****

4.30 am

I wake up before the alarm. I haven't felt this rested or peaceful in a long while. I twist to look at Rohit. He's still sleeping. His hair is a mess. But he looks adorable. I place a quick kiss on his cheek before I move away to brush my teeth.

His alarm rings just as the coffee is ready. Five minutes later he's at the dining table.

"What's for breakfast?"

I stare at him flabbergasted. The domesticity meter between the two of us is definitely inching upwards. I quickly run to the kitchen to check what can be made. Toast. I check the fridge for some orange juice. There isn't much else that I can serve. We're running low on supplies.

"There's toast and orange juice."

"Sounds delicious. I'll be back in a jiffy."

He gets up to make his way towards the bathroom, but I stop him.

"Rohit...." I'm hesitant. I don't want him to get me wrong. And yet I want to put my views in front of him. "I want to help out. In any capacity."

He stares at me quizzically, his eyebrows arching to question my very vague statement.

"What I mean is that I know the hospital needs help and I want to volunteer, any which way to... help... with... things..." My voice trails off. That's the best I can do. I don't know what else to say.

"But you're already helping Sona. By feeding the people outside the hospital."

"But I can do more. I can do other things." I want to be around you as much as I can. I don't voice that bit.

"You're not a doctor and I don't know if you'll be comfortable...." I know what he's thinking.

"I'll be fine Rohit, with whatever you want me to do."

He looks at me thoughtfully and then says. "Come to the hospital at 1. I'll see what I can find for you to do. But remember, it might not be something important."

I shake my head. I'm happy he's allowing me to be around him. I don't care what the job is. I'll do anything just as long as it doesn't need me to go away from him.

*****

1.05 pm

I'm in Rohit's cabin. Someone's apparently informed him of my arrival. I'm waiting to find out what I need to do.

Rohit doesn't come. Instead, I'm told I'll be working with trainee doctor Pulkit Awasthi. Dr. Pulkit is busy stacking twelve huge brown boxes in one corner of the cabin.

"What's this?"

"Masks."

"What do you want me to do with them?"

"They're substandard."

I don't understand. So I ask Dr. Pulkit to explain.

"Masks are vital for doctors and nurses who're working with Corona patients. Since the disease is airborne, it's important that both the patients and the doctors cover their mouths with a mask to reduce the risk of transmission."

I'm aware. I too read the newspapers. 

"There's a shortage of masks in the world. These arrived from China yesterday. But they're substandard. What that means is that these masks will not protect doctors when they work with Corona patients."

"Why?"

He picks one up to demonstrate, ripping the elastic from the mask with his bare hands. 

"So what do I need to do?"

"The majority are like this. Substandard bands, no bands, torn fabric, no mandatory double layer." He shakes his head looking at the sheer volume of waste stacked neatly one on top of the other.

"There are close to 50,000 masks here. Go through these boxes and sort them. We need to salvage as many as we can. Place the good ones in this blue bin. Place the others in the dustbin."

Having told me what to do, he walks out muttering under his breath: "We don't have the privilege to wait for another batch of masks to come in. We don't even know if there is another batch of masks that we can get."

I roll my sleeves up to get to it. Using the letter opener on Rohit's desk, I rip open the first box and grab a fistful of masks. One, snap, two, snap, three, snap, I begin placing the ones that snap into the dustbin wondering why such substandard stuff was even supplied during this crucial time. People's lives depend on these masks and yet instead of focusing on the treatment and care for COVID patients, hospitals are having to deploy manpower to sift through a bunch of defective masks in the hope of finding a few good ones. Just so that doctors can continue treating their patients with minimal risk.

*****

5.45 pm

I've sifted through four of the twelve boxes. And I've barely managed to salvage five hundred masks. But while I was working on sorting them, I realized that the majority of them either had missing or broken elastic bands. Otherwise, they're in perfect condition. If only. 

Suddenly I think of all those people I feed outside the hospital, who're doing nothing. They could easily sew the broken elastic. These masks could become usable. Doing something would also help divert their mind from thinking about the death of their loved ones who are battling the virus inside the hospital.

I grab a bunch of masks with broken elastic bands and make my way outside. I don't have to try hard to convince them to do the job. They only seem too glad. I go back into the hospital and ask the reception staff to arrange for needles and threads, elastic bands, and sewing machines. That's hardly a challenge.

I can sense motivation. These people want to help. Any way they can. It's easier to be part of it all than wait silently as a spectator for the doctor to give you his verdict. 

I stick around for them to do a few masks before I make my way back to Rohit's cabin to grab some more. As soon as I open the door, I'm greeted by an angry version of him. A very angry version of him. I've never seen him this angry.

"Sona," he's screaming and I'm embarrassed.

"Rohit, this is a hospital." I try to whisper but it falls on deaf ears.

"I know this is a hospital, I'm the doctor remember?"

"What happened?" I close his cabin door. People outside are beginning to peep in to see what the ruckus is all about.

"You tell me. You wanted to help. I told you the work would be mundane. You agreed to help anyway. And when I come to check on you, the work's not completed and you're missing.

"You think all of this is some sort of a joke? THIS WORK IS IMPORTANT. People's lives, doctors' lives depend on it. And you're busy gallivanting around. What was it this time? Sonakshi Rastogi was tired? Sonakshi Rastogi was bored? Or Sonakshi Rastogi thought it was beneath her dignity?"

"Sippy," I retort.

"Huh?"

"Sonakshi Sippy." He's startled at my retort. But I'm too angry to be pleased about it.

"No, I wasn't bored. And no I wasn't tired. And no, I didn't think it was beneath my dignity. I was trying to save lives too, by making as many of these re-usable as possible." I have some sewn masks in my hand and I place them on his table for Rohit to see.

"How?" he asks, picking one up and scrutinizing it.

"By getting people to sew on the elastic."

And because it was so difficult to explain what I was doing, I dragged him to the window that overlooked the main entrance from his floor. Near the main entrance, at least fifty family members of COVID-affected patients were focused on sewing the elastic back to make the masks reusable.

"That's what I was doing Rohit." I point to the work that's going on. All these people are now wearing masks and following social distancing protocol. "I know what you think of me. But I'm not that selfish that I put my comfort over the lives of others. I know I've made mistakes but I've also apologized for them. Repeatedly."

For the first time, I don't care that people were watching. That I have an image to upkeep.

"Don't hold my mistakes against me. Please give me one more chance. Please."

I fall on my knees and beg the man standing in front of me. My ego will never get in the way of my relationship again, ever.