It would be ok if all I had to do was social distance and stay home for grocery deliveries as my hair grew unruly. But my son is stuck in an isolated village in India. There were some rescue flights several days drive away, but with the country in lockdow

It would be ok if all I had to do was social distance and stay home for grocery deliveries as my hair grew unruly. But my son is stuck in an isolated village in India. There were some rescue flights several days drive away, but with the country in lockdown for months he could not reach them. I spend my days searching the internet for news, and find stories to feed my nightmares – foreigners kicked out of houses, locked up in quarantine, beaten by police. He accidentally informs me of hardships after they are over – eating only one pineapple for three days. A local lady cooked them rice and dhal from her family's meagre supplies. The monsoons are about to hit. I research typhoid and local food and discover the prevalence of cucumber. I experiment with Goan Cucumber cake to see if it is edible.

I was ready to retire but the universe has decided that there is still much for me to learn. I realise that in Australia we are treating foreigners with the same disdain as some Indians have done. I am mortified. How many of us are as generous as the lady who fed my son? On the 40th day of India's lockdown, I discover that my son is trapped with a beautiful practitioner of tantric yoga. I switch my googling from the safety record of private charter planes to Shakti, the divine Mother. I am unsettled by deep questions - what should we do with our short lives, is he meant to be there, searching for big answers in India? After all he is like many disenchanted young people who travel for that reason. His Shakti friend expounds the art of surrender on Facebook. I plant silverbeet in my garden and try to breathe.