my lockdown story a essay in 120 words in kannada
Answers
Answer:
new baby is coming at my home
Answer:
sorry I don't know kannada
pls translate it to kannada
Step-by-step explanation:
A day during the lockdown seems quite pacifying until it does not. Under usual circumstances, while you’d really wish to take some time off your strenuous routine and just stay in to reconnect with yourself, you are perhaps flabbergasted now that you have been presented with the opportunity.
Personally, I am finding it difficult not being exposed to the everyday traffic din, which has been so embedded in my life, somewhere in the background like a dull ache. How do you get away from something that’s been so familiar to you forever? But now that it’s gone, don’t you feel startled that you wished to be granted relief from its familiarity, in the first place?
As I walk out to the verandah, I am surrounded by a stinging quietness. If I happen to stand there for a bit too long, the thoughts inside my head grow louder and become almost deafening. To be honest, I feel that retrospection is entertaining, but only as long as there is some loud diversion, distracting you from time to time.
Inside, I am stuck with my family. Watching your life slow down interminably makes you realize things you wouldn’t normally care to mull over.
My father sits down on the floor, hurling out loads of old things that were crammed inside forgotten cupboards. Quarantine, it seems, is a golden opportunity to dismiss the ancient and make room for the new. And so, he finds innumerable bills, paperwork, cards, photographs, mementos and a bunch of things ripe with the essence of my childhood and teenage years.
I scour through the things, and I come across a bulky white envelope, wrapped in cellophane. It contains small paper cards and tokens on which I had scribbled in my broken handwriting, which was yet to form fully. They are addressed to my parents—birthday messages, Christmas greetings, childish shenanigans, juvenile complaints, honest confessions and worldly representations of fatuous dreams.
I find other tokens too, addressed to me from my parents. What surprises me is that my seven-year-old-self was exchanging letters with her parents living under the same roof. Now, however, even though my confessions are far more worrisome, I do not find the voice or the words to express myself. Communication is the key to connecting with people, but what happens when the bridge is burnt?
As I make my way through the memorabilia scattered on the floor, my mother’s voice wafts in from the kitchen. She is singing. My father then hands me a piece of paper with names scribbled on it from top to bottom. He explains that they were names my mother considered for me before I was born. I recognize her handwriting and see my current name at the top of the list.
Heart-deep as I am in this nostalgic whirlpool, I now see my father stand up. And as if in a surreal vision, I hear and see my mother’s singing voice pave a path for my father, as he moves farther and farther away, carrying the box of my childhood memories with him.
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