Following the Prime Minister's announcement of a twenty-one-day nationwide lockdown, the world beyond the boundary walls ground to halt.
The transition felt surreal during the first few days. Shops shuttered their doors, commercial flights vanished from the skies, and the bustling energy of Hyderabad dissipated into empty asphalt.
Inside the compound, however, a new reality began to take shape. Security protocols tightened instantly. Nobody from the outside was permitted to enter, and nobody currently inside the walls was allowed to leave.
Rather than succumbing to the anxiety radiating from the television screens, the family established a rhythm. The estate, with its vast mango orchards, open lawns, and self-contained infrastructure, provided a massive buffer against the claustrophobia gripping the rest of the country. They were safe, they were together, and slowly, the strangeness of the situation gave way to a comforting daily routine.
Long before the sun crested the horizon, the steady, rhythmic sound of a leather ball striking willow echoed through the cool morning air.
Professional cricket had been suspended, the international calendar wiped clean, but the discipline required to stay at the apex of the sport did not pause for a pandemic. Tucked away near the edge of the property, the enclosed artificial turf nets provided a solitary sanctuary.
Warming up on the damp grass, muscles stretching and loosening after a night's sleep. Ronnie lay a safe distance away, his thick coat collecting morning dew, contentedly chewing on a frayed tennis ball as he watched the familiar routine.
Rahul, wearing a track suit and carrying a steaming thermos of coffee, often walked down to the nets shortly after sunrise. Setting up the bowling machine, he fed deliveries at varying speeds and lengths.
The drills were meticulous. Footwork, balance, bat speed, and weight transfer were broken down and repeated until they became muscle memory. Hours were spent driving half-volleys, defending sharp bouncers, and executing crisp pull shots. Once the batting session concluded, the focus shifted to fielding—high catches, rapid lateral movements, and direct hits at a single stump.
Sweat soaked through the training shirts by the time the cooling-down stretches began.
Leaving the nets behind, with Ronnie trotting happily at heel, the walk back to the main house signaled the true beginning of the day. The sun would be fully up, casting long, golden shadows across the lawns, and the rest of the household would just be starting to stir.
By mid-morning, the expansive gardens transformed into a playground.
Walking along the shaded dirt paths winding through the mango trees became a daily ritual. Keeping the kids contained indoors was practically impossible. The open air was a necessity.
Their personalities, already sharply defined, dictated the pace of every walk.
Aadhya possessed a relentless, exhausting curiosity. The moment her small feet touched the grass, she was off, her slightly unsteady toddler run carrying her toward whatever caught her eye. A fallen leaf, a bright flower, a stray pebble—everything demanded immediate inspection.
Darting toward a low-hanging branch, she attempted to grab a cluster of green leaves. Missing by several inches, she stumbled forward, landing softly on her hands and knees in the dirt. Rather than crying, she simply pushed herself back up, dusted her palms together, gave Ronnie a quick pat on the nose as he came over to check on her, and continued her pursuit of a nearby butterfly.
"Aadhya, stay on the path," Krithika called out, quickening her pace to intercept the toddler before she wandered into a patch of thorny bushes.
Being scooped up and redirected rarely sat well with Aadhya. Her face would immediately scrunch up, a loud, indignant squawk escaping her lips as she pointed back toward the bushes, furiously demanding to be set down. It usually took a distraction—a colorful bird or a different flower—to negotiate peace.
Rishi, walking a few paces behind, offered a complete contrast.
He moved deliberately, his small hands often clasped behind his back in an amusing imitation of his grandfather. He didn't run unless he had a specific reason to. Stopping near a small puddle left over from the garden sprinklers, he squatted down, carefully poking the surface of the water with a small twig. He watched the ripples spread, absorbed by the movement.
When a stray drop of muddy water splashed onto his knee, however, the fascination ended. He dropped the twig, looking at the small mud spot with irritation. A high-pitched, frustrated whine signaled his displeasure.
A clean handkerchief quickly wiped the offending mud away, earning a satisfied nod from the boy. Ronnie ambled over, giving the puddle a curious sniff before a gentle hand guided the dog away so he wouldn't track mud back into the house, allowing Rishi to resume his careful inspection of the estate.
Sometimes the walks were peaceful, the only sounds being the rustling leaves and the distant calls of peacocks. Other times, they turned into a chaotic sequence of chasing Aadhya, carrying a tired Rishi, and laughing at the absurdity of trying to coordinate two highly opinionated toddlers.
As the afternoons stretched out, characterized by the drowsy heat of the approaching summer, the living room became the center of operations.
With nowhere to go and nothing to schedule, indoor games resurfaced from forgotten cupboards.
A battered deck of UNO cards proved to be the greatest source of domestic friction. Sitting cross-legged on the thick carpet, the family gathered around the coffee table, while Ronnie sprawled out like a heavy, breathing rug himself, resting his chin comfortably across Anjali's ankle.
"That's a blue six, Athamma," Anjali pointed out, leaning over to look at Sesikala's hand. "You have to play blue."
"I don't have blue," the older woman complained, adjusting her reading glasses. "Can I put this red one?"
"No, that's not how it works," Krithika laughed, sorting her own cards. "Draw from the pile."
The real tension, however, always surfaced when the action cards appeared. A carefully planned strategy could be dismantled in seconds. Dropping a Draw Four card onto the pile usually resulted in groans of betrayal.
"You've been holding onto that for three rounds," Anjali accused, glaring across the table as she was forced to pick up a thick stack of cards.
"Strategy," came the unapologetic reply, accompanied by a relaxed shrug.
"That's not strategy, that's hoarding," Krithika chimed in, smoothly dropping a Reverse card and changing the flow of the game.
Ludo and Carrom provided alternative battlegrounds.
Vikram took Carrom seriously. Striking the coins with precision, he rarely missed the pockets. Dusting the board with boric powder, he would line up impossible rebound shots, celebrating with a satisfied smile whenever the striker found its mark.
The games were frequently interrupted by hostile invasions.
Crawling rapidly across the carpet, using Ronnie's sleeping form as a convenient obstacle to launch off of, Aadhya would suddenly appear at the edge of the Carrom board. Her small hand would shoot out, attempting to snatch the red queen directly from the center.
"Whoa, hold on there," a hand would gently intercept hers, lifting the toddler away from the board.
A frustrated squeal would follow, usually quieted by handing her one of the spare, unused plastic strikers to play with. Rishi, sitting nearby amidst a pile of soft blocks, would watch the commotion, disinterested in the wooden board, preferring to stack his blocks meticulously until they inevitably toppled over.
The late afternoons was often broken by the sound of a tennis ball bouncing against a wooden bat.
Rahul, who had moved into one of the independent guest houses on the property with his family had two young sons. The six and eight-year-old boys worshipped cricket, and finding themselves locked in the same compound as the national captain was the equivalent of winning a lottery.
The informal matches took place in the cricket nets.
Standing at the crease, wielding a slightly oversized tennis-ball bat, the objective was never to dominate. The eight-year-old, taking a long, overly dramatic run-up, would hurl the ball forward with everything he had.
A gentle, defensive tap would send the ball rolling softly back down the pitch.
"Good area," the batsman encouraged, tapping the bat inside the drawn crease. "Try keeping it a little fuller."
Emboldened, the boy ran in again. The ball bounced awkwardly, spinning wide. A wildly exaggerated swing purposely missed the ball, prompting a huge, triumphant shout from the makeshift bowler.
"Howzat!" the six-year-old shrieked from point, not sure what he was appealing for, but enjoying the noise.
The umpire, usually Vikram sitting comfortably in a chair with a cup of tea, would slowly raise a finger.
"Umpire's call," came the laughing resignation, tucking the bat under an arm and walking away from the crease.
Gradually, these backyard matches expanded.
Krithika sometimes joined the fielding side, proving to have a surprisingly accurate throwing arm. Anjali participated to heckle the batsmen. Subba Rao stood near the boundary, offering unprompted coaching advice. Several of the estate workers' children, who lived in the staff quarters also joined the games. Ronnie happily appointed himself the official ball retriever, though he rarely surrendered the tennis ball without a prolonged game of tug-of-war.
One evening, a worker's teenage son, bowling with genuine, raw pace, managed to slip a yorker past the defenses, clipping the base of the plastic stumps.
The entire lawn erupted. The teenagers cheered wildly, the younger children jumped up and down, Ronnie let out a series of excited barks, and the bowler looked stunned by his own success.
"Too quick for me," the batsman conceded cheerfully, tossing the ball back to the triumphant teenager.
Beneath the veneer of family games and evening walks, the reality of the situation required constant vigilance.
"How are the workers?"
"They're comfortable, sir. The continued wages and the food provisions have eased their anxiety. A few are worried about extended family in the city, but we've set up a secure communication line for them to stay in touch."
Nodding slowly, the gaze shifted toward the high boundary walls. "Keep monitoring their health. If anyone shows even a mild fever, isolate them immediately and let me know. Nobody takes any chances."
The contrast was stark. Returning to the main house meant stepping back into a bubble of laughter and toddler chaos, but the television screens mounted in the living room offered a constant, grim reminder of the world beyond the gates.
News channels looped footage of deserted train stations, exhausted medical workers, and graphs tracking the exponential rise of the virus across continents. Major cities were paralyzed. The global economy was grinding to a halt.
Yet, when the television was turned off, the only sound in the living room was the soft thud of Rishi's wooden blocks hitting the carpet, Ronnie's rhythmic snoring from his spot on the rug, and Krithika humming a soft tune as she organized a stack of magazines. The farmhouse was a fortress, holding the uncertainty at bay.
On the morning of April 3, the regular news broadcasts were interrupted by a brief video message from Prime Minister Narendra Modi.
The family gathered around the television, expecting a further extension of the lockdown measures or a new set of restrictive guidelines. Instead, the address was relatively short, focused not on policy, but on public morale.
The Prime Minister acknowledged the difficulty of the ongoing lockdown, praising the discipline shown by the citizens. He then made a request. To break the darkness of the crisis and demonstrate collective resolve, he asked everyone to turn off their household lights on Sunday, April 5, at nine in the evening, and light diyas, candles, or mobile flashlights for nine minutes.
As the broadcast concluded and the regular news anchors began their breathless analysis, a brief silence hung over the living room.
Anjali leaned back against the sofa, crossing her arms with a skeptical expression.
"Well," she muttered, her voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "Last time they asked people to clap, half the neighborhood broke their dinner plates and started street parades. I think this time we might actually burn down a house."
Krithika burst out laughing.
Even Vikram, usually respectful of political addresses, let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "She isn't wrong. People get a little too enthusiastic when they're locked inside for a week."
"We stick to small diyas," Sesikala decided firmly. "Nothing large, and definitely keep the children away from the edges."
The anticipation for the April 5 observance built steadily over the next two days.
As Sunday evening approached, the sky over Shamshabad bruised into a deep, clear purple. Inside the farmhouse, preparations were understated and careful. Small clay diyas, filled with oil and fitted with cotton wicks, were arranged along the edge of the wide veranda and the bordering walls of the garden.
At nine o'clock, the main electrical switches were flipped.
The sprawling house plunged into darkness. A moment later, the soft, flickering orange glow of the lit diyas illuminated the veranda.
The family stood together in the warm night air. Ronnie sat faithfully near the steps, his ears perked, observing the sudden appearance of the tiny flames with a soft, curious whine.
Aadhya stood securely in Krithika's arms, her eyes wide as she stared at the nearest flame. The dancing light captivated her entirely. She reached a small hand out, instinctively trying to grasp the bright object.
"Ah, hot. No touching," Krithika murmured softly, gently pulling the small hand back and kissing the toddler's temple. Aadhya didn't protest, merely content to watch the flickering shadows dance against the stone pillars.
Rishi, held closely on the other side, watched the flames with a far more serious expression. The darkness surrounding the house seemed to make him slightly wary, his small fingers gripping a cotton shirt collar tightly until the soft light seemed to reassure him.
Nine minutes later, the lights hummed back to life, flooding the house.
Dinner for the younger adults was served slightly later. Sitting around the long dining table, eating a simple meal of dal, rice, and a dry potato curry, the conversation was light.
Pulling a smartphone from a pocket, a thumb scrolled casually through the Vibe application.
The feed was dominated by the nine-minute observance. Millions of users had uploaded pictures of their balconies, candlelit living rooms, and glowing phone screens.
However, as Anjali had accurately predicted, enthusiasm had occasionally overtaken common sense.
"You have to see this," a voice said, sliding the phone across the polished wood of the dining table toward Krithika and Anjali.
The video on the screen was chaotic. An overzealous gentleman standing on a cramped apartment balcony had arranged what appeared to be forty large, highly flammable candles beneath a set of synthetic, flowing curtains. The inevitable occurred within seconds. A gust of wind blew the fabric into the flames, and a corner of the curtain immediately caught fire.
The audio captured a frantic shout, followed by the man desperately attempting to beat the flames out with a plastic bucket while someone in the background screamed about saving the potted plants. The fire was extinguished quickly, leaving behind a scorched curtain and a heavily panting, bewildered man covered in soot.
Krithika stared at the screen for two seconds before shaking with silent laughter.
"This is what I was worried about," came the amused observation, taking a sip of water.
Anjali leaned over to watch the replay, letting out a sharp bark of laughter. "I told you! People have lost their minds. Give them a candle, and they think they're staging a medieval siege."
Scrolling further down the feed revealed a treasure trove of absurdity.
One video showed a family that had apparently purchased heavy-duty distress flares, bathing their entire street in a blinding, aggressive red neon glow that looked more like an apocalyptic warning than a message of hope.
Another clip featured an elderly man blowing into a massive conch shell with such ferocious intensity that his glasses flew off his face and shattered on the balcony tiles.
There were videos of toddlers enthusiastically attempting to blow out the ceremonial diyas as if they were birthday candles, leading to frantic parents diving across living rooms to protect the flames.
"Look at this one," Anjali gasped, tears forming in the corners of her eyes as she pointed at her own phone. "They've coordinated a laser light show. From a third-floor apartment. It looks like a nightclub."
The dining room echoed with unrestrained laughter. The videos weren't malicious; they were simply a testament to the chaotic, diverse, and unpredictable nature of the country attempting to navigate a surreal situation.
As the plates were cleared and the night deepened, the humor eventually subsided, replaced by contentment.
Walking upstairs, checking on the twins revealed them sprawled comfortably across their respective crib mattresses. Aadhya was sleeping on her stomach, one leg kicked out at a strange angle, while Rishi was curled into a neat, compact ball, clutching a small stuffed elephant.
Adjusting their blankets softly, the quiet breathing of the sleeping toddlers filled the room. Ronnie had already claimed his spot at the foot of the master bed, curled into a snoring, comfortable heap.
Long after the farmhouse had fallen completely silent, when the only light visible from the outside was the pale illumination of the moon reflecting off the garden pond, the routine shifted.
The heavy, soundproofed door leading to the basement stairs stood at the end of a quiet hallway.
The hours between midnight and dawn did not belong to the lockdown, the family games, or the chaotic internet videos. Those hours belonged to a silent, relentless pursuit of a biological ghost, hidden from the world resting peacefully upstairs.
Leaving the sleeping dog and the silent house behind, footsteps echoed faintly against the concrete floor, moving deeper into the room, as the long night began again.