One of the few terrific things about COVID-19 is the opportunity—and obligation—to slow down your life. Last month, I was very fortunate to spend 10 days being dead still, in a cottage set in a gorgeous fruit orchard outside Bombay. I spent an entire afternoon lazily watching mangoes ripen on trees, with an indulgent smile. The branches were so laden with mangoes, they could barely look up to return my smile.

As soon as you lift your chai cup from the verandah wall, a queue of black ants assembles in seconds, to greedily lap up from the brown circle left behind by your cup. You can imagine them complaining they had asked for tea with sugar. What do you mean you take tea without sugar, harrumph! Appalling service. It’s been long since I thought about ants and whether they’re getting enough to eat. During our school holidays in Dharwar, my “native place”, I saw my grandmother make rangolis every dawn in the courtyard, from rice flour, so the ants could eat something too.