I haven’t been on holiday since 2019. I had no idea the one I went on would be my last for a while, or I would probably have savoured it a little more. Earlier this week, however, I was told about the friend of a friend, who was currently on his fourth vacation over the last year. He couldn’t stand the idea of being cooped up in his apartment, apparently, and had opted for travel because that was what he felt he had to do. He had never spent a birthday at home, I was told in shock and surprise, and wasn’t going to let the minor inconvenience of a global pandemic get in the way. And so, he had packed his bags and taken off. I don’t know if he had access to newspapers on his trip or knew what was going on in India while he napped by a seashore, because he kept his feelings to himself.

There is no resentment when I type this, as much as there is resignation at how people look at the world. I can’t blame this person for doing what he did because millions of others made the exact same decision, in some form or another. Some decided to go on drives across the city with picnic bags tucked in vehicle boots, others moved to small towns and put the residents of those places at risk by becoming inadvertent carriers of a virus. Still others amplified their privilege by documenting their exploits on Instagram, oblivious to the real horror of people losing loved ones back home. They did this with smiles on their faces, and the slapping of backs.