In 2020, my little boy discovered his love for the sea and sand in Goa. It brought an end to a two-year pregnancy and maternity-induced social isolation, with meeting friends over coffees, conferences, dinners and shopping expeditions. Then came #Covid19, lockdowns, anxiety, depression, the pain of not seeing my parents, chats with neighbors from over the walls, no travel, missing Bombay dearly, learning how to clean economically, learning salsa from an online tutor, teaching my son to love books and music, dancercising, finding delight in cooking, finally learning how to do suryanamaskars (went from zero in July to 40 a day in November), writing three books of fiction to cope with isolation and depression, editing 2,50,000 words, reuniting with old friends, meeting a friend after four years, missed hugging my favourite people because of the six-foot rule, finding my alter ego in a person I had seen and known for fifteen years but never spoken to. The year was finally getting better with companionship and laughter, unlockdowns and celebrations when I suddenly lost my father-in-law and am too shocked to grieve. A little more than an hour to the new year, I am with the person I love the most in the world, who loves me the most - my son. And that's a good way to end a year of great highs and many lows, I think.
