A white butterfly flutters past my window oblivious to the dire situation humans are in. Last evening mother entered my room to discuss death as a famous local musician passed away yesterday – not a victim of the coronavirus. Somehow a regular death amongst the pandemic deaths seemed to touch a chord with her.

I just realised that the Koha has stopped calling, maybe it knows there’s no Avurudu this time. Father is finally coming to terms with the fact that his dream land – the US of A – is not great. Oh, how the mighty fall.

Our lane is especially quiet today, it’s a Poya holiday. Probably everyone is taking a break from productivity during this government imposed free time. Atleast the monkeys are having a ball, jumping from tree to tree and wire to wire.

A light breeze lifts the curtain as a cloud shaped like Absolem the blue Caterpillar passes by.

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