Coming to myself in solitary confinement

Coming to myself in solitary confinement

 As the clinking of vessels slowed to a soft din and the steady flow of water running from the tap turned into soapy, lathery foam around the half-washed dishes, I stood next to the wash basin in the kitchen wearing my leathery gloves and shifted my gaze to the road outside the window, strangely quiet apart from the harsh sunlight of the afternoon sun of mid-March. The aroma from the chicken broth placed on the gas oven filled the air with a familiar aroma of a peaceful holiday at home, the one that was so dear to me. It was just that this time all was not that peaceful, not that quiet either. It was more like a taste of redemption before an impending gloom. It was like a lull before an apocalypse.

It all starts in the morning everyday with a steady flow of news on the newspapers and online publications when I sip my morning lopchu tea. As much as I think of cutting myself away from all the chaos and clamour of the world concerning this great monster in the form of a virus, I can’t resist the urge of knowing, being aware of the reality around me. The words of the soothsayers and friends who do not foresee any negative eventuality in the new future too fail to quieten my frayed nerves. Then there are of course news about daily wage labourers or the delivery guys who are almost on the brink of starvation, which leave me with a strange pain in the pit of my stomach. And this pain does not go away even with my numerous effort to prepare dainty dishes for myself. And then I turn my attention to housework which is almost carried on over the day like a quiet ritual. Thanks to the cook and maid, who has been asked to stay away from the house for at least a week, I have learnt to channelise my energies into small chores like sweeping the floor, swabbing, cleaning the toilet, putting the clothes in washing machine, making the bed and doing the dishes. I have been consciously trying not to think and just carry on with whatever work in a robotic manner. I have managed to reduce myself to a point of great insignificance.

Though confinement is not new to me, I have spent almost the last two decades of my life alone, barring college years when I had roommates, who I could always not count on. Yet in none of those years I have sensed any global uncertainty of this magnitude that was capable of making the world topsy turvy. Nor have I seen powerful human beings across the world so vulnerable to chance and circumstances beyond their control. Though I have surely read in books but I haven’t experienced such instances of kindness and solidarity where the institutions and government are actually putting in effort to break a death chain. Every such act is making me realize about my own insignificance in the greater scheme of things.

And so I keep cooking, stirring, chopping, grinding until I can’t hear my voice no more . The chopped vegetables, fish, prawns, meat sometimes seem like amorphous agents trying to give shape to something sensuous, savoury, wholesome that would take the mind away from the harshness outside and take me to a different space and time. It’s the same with streaming sites such as Netflix or Amazon Prime whose content often brings with it different voices with different issues.

It's in this constant attempt to instil in myself a monk-like quietness and grounded-ness and on the other hand the urge to escape from all of this into the land of senses and colour, I oscillate. In doing this, I feel I have reached a balance that would help me tide over this crisis and help me cross the threshold into a more evolved space.

ENDS