Flash. Crackle. Cordite. Death.

The electric moment arced briefly across a humid Mumbai night. The mosquito flashed in an instant mortis. 
Resonating a sharp crackle before the cordite smell hit my nostril.
She won't incubate another generation with her belly distended with my blood. 

Covid 19. 
Fragile threads of RNA -- poised damocles like in an episode unfolding.
Like mosquitoes the contagion swarms and swills across the globe. Humanity is cowering in homes akin diaphanous mosquito nets, uncertain, temporary and thin in defense. Inevitability lies in the stepping out of our temporary and forced cocoons. Who will feel the bite? The russian roulette is what really bothers one. Who will survive? Inevitability? Maybe.

As I swung the bat to exterminate the mosquito, a portmanteau from two of the bard glimmered in my head

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

...As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods,

They kill us for their sport.

A Midsummer-Night’s Dream
and 
Act III. Scene II.King Lear Act 4, scene 1, 32–37

Of frequent adieus...

They say it is a recession. Every time someone goes away from the office and sends out a bye-bye mail I feel a little tingle. The layoffs were a jolt. It feels weird when you are expecting to speak to someone for lunch and realize that you won't see him the next day.

It's only fair for the business. It doesn't feel so good somewhere near the soul though.

The silent whip has left a welt on the backs of the collective minds. My mind at least. I see people crowding more urgently near their PCs. Scurrying harder around the floor. Working more for less to be spared of the scythe.

A vacation does not seem so settling anymore. The glint in the eyes of the project managers are fiercer. The uncertainty is hanging like a shroud and stifling the sheer joy of working. All 'large' process driven organizations seem to work like this. I still don't see how many people really love their work anymore.