8am Mother calls me in a tizzy to say, ‘My TV has conked off and the repair fellow wants 20,000 bucks for some parts. Ridiculous! I have half a mind to just get rid of this TV, and hang a painting in its place.’

‘I agree, Mom! What is there to watch on television anyway? The only amusing thing I have seen on the idiot box lately is an idiot dressed in combat fatigues, brandishing a toy gun while discussing the recent air strikes on some debate.’

Mother sighs, ‘Yes, it’s not been much better on other channels either.’

I add, ‘I read a strange fact recently. Did you know that adult humans have 2 to 5 million follicles of hair per square centimetres roughly the same as chimpanzees? But after seeing most of our news anchors, I am now inclined to believe that along with follicles, some have chimpanzee brains as well — exactly 1/3 the size of our human ones — and ours may shrink to their size if we continue watching them.’

1pm Lunch break involves taking a stroll and bypassing trolls as I scroll through the news on the internet. There are variable narratives floating around, but one thing very clear in the Pulwama aftermath is that there is a new hero. No, it’s not Pakistan PM Imran Khan despite his grandiose, or as some call it face-saving, gesture of giving our captured pilot back, but the pilot himself, Abhinandan Varthaman.

Abhi, as people have begun to call him, has become everyone’s idol. A pizza chain has been busy distributing free pizzas to his namesakes, and folks are making a beeline for their barbers to get Abhinandan makeovers.

My old boss draws my attention to the fact that a gentleman has jubilantly posted a picture of a baby with the words, ‘My brother gave birth to a baby boy today and we have decided to keep his name Abhinandan.’

We are both equally perplexed as to why this is not considered breaking news because clearly it is the first time in history that a man has given birth!

I also look at the day-old baby’s picture carefully. Having produced two such bawling creatures myself, I have to say that this baby looks at least a month old, but then who am I to put a damper on anyone’s display of patriotic josh.

6pm I accost the man of the house as he comes back from work, ‘Do you know that someone famous once said that a kiss without a moustache is like an egg without salt? Everyone is growing a moustache these days, why don’t you get one?’ The man of the house unlaces his shoes and says, ‘Who says I don’t have one?’

As I continue looking at his clean-shaven face in bewilderment, he beckons me towards his cupboard and pulls open a drawer full of stick-on moustaches. ‘Take your pick?’ he says. ‘This one from Rustom? This one from Gold, or how about this Jolly LLB one?’

‘None of these,’ I snort, ‘You remember that old line, “moochen ho toh Nathulal jaisi”? Now it’s “moochen ho toh Abhinandan jaisi warna na ho”.’

Considering I have heard that dozens of people are feverishly writing scripts based on the recent strikes, I won’t be surprised if soon there is an Abhinandan-style one in his drawer as well.

8pm Mummy ji has invited us for dinner and while ladling palak paneer on her son’s plate, she begins berating me about the unnecessary risks he takes.

‘I saw in the paper that he set himself on fire on stage, why do you let him do all these things? You should stop him!’

I reply, ‘Mummyji, I have given up! Now I just ask if he has an insurance policy in place and, more importantly, if I am the beneficiary.’ Both mother and son give me a stern glare, so I hurriedly bury my face in biryani.

When the man of the house sets himself on fire I know there are safety protocols in place. When he comes back with wounds, I am aware that a simple shower will wash all the make-up and fake blood away. I can nonchalantly make jokes about beneficiaries, but for the women whose husbands walk into the line of fire, insurance policies and bank nominees are vital questions, but above all of this is the fear that your partner may never return. Because so many don’t. Like Vijeta Mandavgane’s Squadron Leader husband, Ninad, who was cremated last Friday. This is a woman who, even in the midst of blinding grief, made one thing emphatically clear: ‘We don’t want a war. You don’t know the damages of war. We don’t want more Ninads to go. Social media warriors, please stop.’ The price of war articulated by the people who pay it. This is the reality check that people need and not all the war mongering behind the safety nets of WhatsApp groups and news desks. The fact is that there are real people involved, not plastic GI Joe figurines deployed in hazardous situations. These are human beings, whose fortunes are not counted in the money they make, but by the most basic of all premises — the good fortune to be alive. These are men like Abhinandan, where the blood is real, the bravery is real and, yes, even that remarkable moustache is real.

Friends, Indians, countrymen and women, it’s good to have josh, but better to have a modicum of hosh, and best to know when to be khamosh.