Non-Fiction

I am not happy with the way things are going. I know there are other people like me out there. Before this lockdown, eight hours was always too long for me to sleep. I would fall sleep around twelve and wake up by six. Gone are the days, and maybe they are returning, because right now, I don’t know when this is going to end.

I have been thinking maybe I’m depressed because the listless emptiness in the way I feel does not seem far away from depression. I now have a mercurial aura about almost everything; sometimes I’m happy, sometimes I’m sad, and both seem to occur for no apparent reason. It’s almost like the turn of the weather: sometimes expected, sometimes unexpected.

It’s been six weeks now since I left my parent’s house and moved to my grandma’s— both in Kwara State, Nigeria. But it’s now getting worse day by day. My parent’s asylum was lively. I could joke a bit with my siblings. I could also go to my friend’s place to have tête-à-tête with him. Sometimes I went to the football pitch down the street where I live, to play or watch football. Nonetheless, I got fed up, carrying out the same routine every day was unbearable.

Grandma’s place has been like an inferno for me, no one to talk to, no one can relate to the type of life I live. I’m on my own now, I wake up anytime I like, eat anytime I deem fit, and whatnot.  What was constant when I got here is reading and writing; for now, it’s incessant reading and occasional writing. My writing became occasional because of boredom, I just can’t think straight. Now is one of the occasional times.

Something positive that I can point out here is that my reading coverage per day has increased, and my writing output, increased. If that’s only what I’m taking out of this cul-de-sac epoch, I would be happy. It has always being my dream to be a creative writer. The problem now is this odd time. When we are resuming back to school is what I need to buoy up. Just like most Nigerian students, I want to go back to school. I’ve missed the aura like an addicted drunkard who has long been ostracised from alcohol. I’m antsy to hear our resumption date.

I’ve been contemplating going back to my parent’s home or staying here. If I see some signs that we are resuming soon, and if my writing improves the way I want it to, I would stay here and live with the constant mercuriality of my feelings and depression, while I soothe myself with the loving sounds of Lindsey Stirling’s Violin, pending the time we resume.

When you think of running, what comes to mind? Some may say the feeling of exhilaration and being carefree, while others may just think of it as another tiresome and energy-consuming sport, and, up until recently, I was part of the latter group. Although I had been a runner for years, I only ran during track meets and practices when I had to, not for fun. My perspective changed one day when I decided to stop sitting around my house and go for a run. The weather outside was cloudy and cool, the perfect weather for a jog around the neighborhood. I stepped outside, only to retreat back into my house, because I had just been reminded of why I hated running so much: the first steps.

Every day during quarantine feels cloudy, gloomy, and gray, and I never really looked forward to leaving the comfort of my home and running around my hometown of Palisades Park, New Jersey. It was depressing, seeing the deserted streets, which were once teeming with people. The rather urban jungle of shops and restaurants, which used to emanate the sounds of chatter and the smells of Korean BBQ, were now boarded up and lifeless. I told myself that it would be too sad to go for a run and see the town looking so different. However, that was only part of the reason. It may sound a bit lazy, but I found myself dreading the thought of taking these initial steps because I wasn’t fond of the transition out of my comfort zone. My lack of motivation soon became a pattern, but I eventually realized that the hardest part was taking that first step out of my house. After this first step–when I am actually running–I find the sport enjoyable and exciting. Running helps me find a rhythm and escape the doom and gloom of staying still for too long. And even though my town looks different now, I console myself by remembering that this pandemic can’t last forever. Running reminds me to keep moving, even if each individual step feels so small. Sometimes, starting to tackle a challenge is the biggest obstacle in my path.

Instead of dreading the opening steps of my run, I began to think of them as a gateway to further enjoyment and exhilaration, which surprisingly altered my mindset. I started going on daily runs around my town, all because of this change in perspective. Every challenge we tackle comes with the challenge of getting started, whether it’s hopping off the couch for a run, unzipping your backpack to study, or opening your mouth to speak up. Starting up leads to action. Action leads to habit. Habit leads to change. What’s that one task that never gets crossed off your to-do list? What’s that New Year’s resolution you’ve been conveniently ignoring? What’s that one thing you’ve always wanted to do but just… never started? Taking the first step makes the rest a bit easier, even on a cloudy day.

 

 

 

Remember, the ashes of history still pulse – Plato,
and τὰ πάντα ῥεῖ καὶ οὐδὲν μένει.Tà pánta rheî
kaì oudèn ménei. Meaning everything flows,

nothing is frozen. Remember, when the world
withers into shaky, misted shadows, we are still here.
Nectar still quenches the hazy beginning, the solemn

end. Mama’s crescent outline still gleams heavy and soft
and slow, guides child to womb. We must be
brave/we must be brave/we must be
brave ripples smooth and afraid

from her mouth, a silken mantra. Our faces still undress like peeled
clementine at the kitchen table, unraveling from the comfort
of steamed idlis piled high. Remember, loneliness is only

a flexing touch, the act of feeling the weight of the universe
flush under a single raw palm, trembling. We are not alone.
Night watches silently, skates holy fingers through the earth

for reprieve. She knows fear and ignorance always tastes
better in the dark. Remember, in the nearby grocery
store, everyone is paralyzed. By the register, apologies uncover

themselves faster than truths. We are all just hands lifted
from wavering moments, pulled in by gravity, reaching
for steady heartbeats that feel impossibly distant. It’s a bitter

Monday night. Our heartstrings are pulled taut against
the unknown, against zoom windows and breaking news.
The streetlights are cold and drained and alone. Time cloaks

our bodies with something fierce and we can’t stop counting
our bones to make sure they’re still there. But remember,
see the beauty in everything. Watch the sunflowers turn

away from their own shadows, basking in the hardened sunlight.
Remember, prayer requires only a throat and intention.
Remember, we are more together than ever before, crying stars

shifting light across our aching bodies, tumbling
in the dark. Remember, we will be okay. Now, we spoon
comfort from the universe into our lungs like a second

dawn, fluxing with color. Soon, we will be reborn,
strength blossoming, flush
with a new understanding of our world.

This season is hazy and overripe. I’ve been working from home or more accurately, sweating from home, since I prefer the occasional sauna of my childhood bedroom to our wintery basement. My carry-on sits unpacked in the corner of my room where I placed it four months ago — a single sweater lolling out of its mouth as if it missed its chance to speak up, as if it’s expecting to be thrown roughly into the trunk of a car and taken back to the city at any moment. But we’ll both have to wait until next summer, at the earliest.

In the meantime, I open the windows and wait for the smoky blues of rain. I could sit in it for the rest of my life – I could believe anything with those cool honest hands on my face.

*

On dryer nights, fireflies glitter leisurely near the garden like ornaments. It turns out that although they can’t bite, sting, or carry diseases, their lights are poisonous. I’ve just turned 20, which means less than I expected, which means that I’m banished from the kingdom but I’m still on TikTok every day. Which means that people are dying every day and if I hadn’t been thrown out of the world, I wouldn’t have finally figured out who I want to be. It turns out that fireflies only have an adult lifespan of two months, despite spending a year growing as larvae. It turns out there have been doves nesting outside my window despite living here for almost half of my life, and I had never known until they were pointed out to me.

*

I have to say it’s impressive that the sun completes its rotations daily without fail, without ever falling gracelessly into another sky, or showering us in flames. I’m growing restless, on the other hand, even though I love my own company. The days have been at their brightest for weeks, but the nights grow darker. I bike across town and see my friends, the black-eyed geese in their elegant suits, the butterflies drifting like tiny fires near my wheels, and several storms of birds. If I was someone else, I’d know each of their species. But the wind, sweet and white as ice cream, can lull you into any comfort.

*
How fortunate I am — to have only small worries, buzzing around my ears as mindlessly as flies.

It was 6^th of March that I went to the examination centre to appear for my political science examination. India was alerted about the virus by that time, yet there was a nonchalance about it. I remember it was the last day I went out of my home, after which like an abrupt quantum jump the world took to the disquiet. Initially I was highly apprehensive and wanted to simply barge out of my house, however the gravity of the circumstances set in with passing time.

It’s almost three months of the quarantine quietude and it feels that our adapting mechanism has become used to it. It is amusing how the spread of the contagion has produced a gnawing fear, at the same time, it has kind of shaped itself into the crux of worldwide culture. Isolation has led to a unanimity that probably nothing could bring about for a long time.  A few days ago, I was reading an article on a newspaper which stated that terracotta artists are responding to the pandemic through their artistic mediums. The portrayal of figurines masked and gloved intends to address their importance in present times.

The world of literature has also risen to creatively express and ventilate individual experiences of the lockdown. While the pandemic has brought in haunting pieces of news, there is this broth of anxiety, intrusive thoughts, and dysfunctional schemas enveloping the mind. And its needless to say that the future appears to be as hazy as  a shroud of  fog, though no one can deny how it has led to people voicing their opinions about inequality, the chasm that prevails in the economy, and  there has been a rising awareness about mental health.

Also, there have been some phenomenal steps taken by governments around the world and other organisations to control the spread of the novel corona. Recently I heard that a special kind of sweets are being made with a myriad of herbal ingredients including honey, by a renowned shop in Kolkata, in the urgent need of strengthening the immunity of people! Everyone has been and is developing ways of coping with the pandemic.

The other day I was reading a poem called The Tent, by Rumi. The last few lines contained a message that has impacted me a lot. The poem concludes with the lines-

‘The news we hear is full of grief for that future,
But the real news inside here
Is there’s no news at all. – Rumi

I wonder how lockdown has taught me to ingeniously introspect and explore myself. I have been feeling quite cathartic over these days by penning down my thoughts in the form of ornamenting poetry or simply scribbling in my diary, which I would have never done if it were the daily hustle bustle of life. How I have also admired the ensconced radicles of the bonds I share with my family and my friends!

With nature revitalising, and a broadened vision of empathy, I hope the world will enlighten and restructure itself – as Sarojini Naidu writes in one of her poems about the resurrection of the world ‘on new anvils of peace.’

 

 

Such a simple act reveals a hidden world of hope.

 She answered my Skype call with her body angling away from her screen, leaning back against her chair. Behind her I could see a foggy sunset on an autumn day in New York City, the maple leaves changing hue, mist accumulating on the glass pane window.

She would occasionally glance at me, but other than that cast a bemused look around, her eyes darting around her desk and wall. She barely opened her mouth.

In the silence, I could hear the leaves rustle outside. I slammed the volume-up key on my computer. Max volume. The sound of birds wrestling continued, their feet gritting against the branches of the trees.

She was in her college dorm room. Grey shelving housing her familiar white violin case and tennis balls behind her. Books strewn all over. It was so different from her home back in the Philippines. The Fitbit she wore on her left wrist and vowed to never take off was gone at last.

That’s how long it had been.

“Hello?” I said. The word slowly traversing the space between us, crawling into the microphone.

“Hi.”“Long time no talk yeah?”

“Um, yeah I guess.”

It was as if all the time we spent together when she was still in high school, all the hours of being violin stand partners rehearsing in our school’s orchestra, all the inside jokes, all the romance gossip had been erased, like faint pencil lead on basic addition worksheets from elementary school: indistinguishable.

As I was consumed by the demanding workload of the rigorous high school International Baccalaureate program while she was preoccupied adjusting to her new independent freshman college lifestyle, learning to budget finances, familiarizing herself with the campus and neighborhood, and attending classes, we let two years drift between us. We broke our promise to continue “keeping in touch”.

But to my relief, after a couple of minutes of hammering the partially refrozen ice between us, we were back to cracking inside jokes from music class, listening to our favorite song “You and Me” by Marc E. Bassy, and, best of all, making kwento. She told me about her new friend Emma from Jakarta, and I updated her on the new members of our high school’s orchestra and this year’s annual Christmas karaoke performance by our vice principal. My voice was hoarse when I ate dinner that night.

We continued to talk often and I learned about how she was coping with this pandemic, living alone for the first time in her life. She was, at times, anxious, her mouth trembling and her hand tapping her desk at every thought. Occasionally, a tear was shed.

Talking to each other and getting caught up in each other’s stories for hours, would teleport us to the two chairs in the second row of the first violin section of our orchestra, when there was no virus and when we could walk the halls of our school. It provided comfort and reassurance in an anxiety-filled environment and national panic.

I soon realized how something as minute as a short video call with my old friend has filled the void of loneliness that quarantine has bestowed upon me. Reconnecting was my outlet, a time I could relax for a moment and forget about the harsh new reality. Rescuing a connection from being severed, knowing you’ve secured another lifelong friend, overwhelmed my body with joy and relief like no other.

Quarantine has taught me the importance of being open and outgoing, reaching out and initiating conversations with others. It taught me the importance of catching up with old friends and not letting those connections get severed. But more importantly, from these conversations, I realized the gold pot of knowledge waiting for me to discover, narrowly hidden behind a simple “Hey!” text.

These calls define my quarantine experience so far, an opportunity to unplug my body from this tough reality and reattach myself to old friends, the ones who shaped me.