COVID Diary: Time has no hurry, writes Arundhati Dutta Choudhury

May 20: Incessantly pouring shower since early morning has shielded the day and I vainly have been waiting for someone who is supposed to do my RTPCR Test. Time has no hurry and so I too am blurred between speed and slowing pace. I have already finished gurgling with Betadine, have inhaled steam-vapour, had a cup of Nescafe first then a full glass of Ensure. Have done a light walking in the room, moving to and fro.

Presently, nights and days dissected in curfew, restricted hours and a handful of free time slots reflect a new meaning of life. I do not dream of days nor nights, let me dream because day and night I listen to the shrlling siren of all categories of ambulances. Such caravan of disease and death is the menacing truth which by now we have accepted. With such preparations of Covid, “Do I dare disturb the universe?”( Eliot).

When someone is infected like me, I suggest, it is better to think of life, the colourful carnivals and in my case the pre-digital class hours. Why should I ponder on issues over which I have no control. I simply can abide by all the wholesome tips, go through the medical strategies and consume the medicines, foodstuffs and what not , but I shall never make Corona my friend and shall never let her interfere in my mind. There, I am absolutely Covid free. With a little feeling of pressure on my chest, spasmodic cough and a feeling of sloping down and false whispers on my back, I am sitting with blank eyes and staring at the radiance of bright gulmohor swinging on my front.

Finally, my RTPCR was done and was now proceeding for my lung-e xray. I feel like flatly floating and constantly torn apart between a strong hold and sudden fall down. A strange feeling of “Nothing is and what is not” ( Macbeth, Shakespeare). But, I believe I shall surely win the battle against Corona. We must overcome.

According to Old Masters, the human position of suffering is a constant detachment. The sense of suffering may be illustrated but cannot be connected in the same canvas. So, sorrow is always a personal issue. While I was standing for the slot to get my x ray done, a passer by was calculating yesterday’s total death rate. Two stretchers passed with sinking patients while another patient was lying on a stretcher with oxygen held by a girl, everywhere a dismal sight crowded and clamouring either with life or death.

Postscript:

I slipped slightly to my backside seat
Crossing a dirty ditch.
Am disheveled with touch and touch me not.
I once again long to be the flamboyant,
Once again wish to touch my mother’s feet
Wishing me love and life alike even at seventy eight.

Also Read: COVID Diary: At the cross roads of no entry and no exit, writes Arundhati Dutta Choudhury