Call it the Covid effect

How far is it from one's thoughts to written words? That depends on whether the stream of consciousness originates in one's mind or heart. The mind's algorithm takes a while to logically process and arrange thoughts in a convincing manner. But the heart pumps emotions so spontaneously that they wash away all the basics of reasoning in their way. The ensuing words bring forth ideas from the invisible and make them manifest. Writing sculptures one's ideas into a masterpiece.
Humans are enslaved by their circumstances, hence our thoughts are susceptible to external influence even against our will. I cannot be a Florentino Ariza and indulge in an orgy of love and lust in the time of corona. When the world grapples with a deadly pandemic that has locked down more than half of humanity, to write anything other than Covid-19 really isn't politically correct. Having already written a column as recently as last week, it wouldn't also be ethically correct to harp on the subject. This's more of an agony than a dilemma. Yet I am adamant to give it a try.
How far is it from the first paragraph to the second and from the second to the third? Not too long in a normal thought process. But I have been on the third for more than than half an hour. Looking into a blank screen wouldn't help me. Let me open the window to breathe in the freshness of spring to resuscitate my brain. My eyes pan to capture the morning vignettes of the city that have become part of my habits. Where's the diminutive Filipino nurse in blue scrubs who read Japanese comics while waiting for her hospital bus? Is she now working graveyard shifts to save humanity? Where are the little Afghan kids in their traditional attire who played a semblance of cricket on the cobbled footpath?
Where are the three women execs who marched to their cars holding a cup of coffee that left a heady trail of aroma? Where's the little humpty dumpty who waited with his grandpa to see off his school-going sis? Where has all the hustle and bustle gone? The world seems to have bolted itself inside a hermetic cone of silence.
Oh no! Why am I bouncing back to the Covid theme? Let me watch the TV to catch some positive news. Alas! The virus seems to have infected prime time too. Maybe I should check out Amazon Prime. Veeru (Dharmendra) is about to grab Basanti's (Hema Malini) hands to teach her a lesson or two in shooting, with Jai (Amitabh Bachchan) maintaining a fair measure of social distance. "Oh no, how can they hold hands? Is Veeru such a Covidiot?"
"Dad, Sholay is a 70s movie. What are you babbling about? Which era are you living in?" My daughter looks flabbergasted.
Oops! Did I mention corona again? Am I paranoid? My column hasn't moved beyond the third paragraph. I am back at the window that overlooks the footpath. Bus No 44 stops, and moves on with no passenger to alight or board. A flock of mynas perching on the bus stop roof groom their feathers uninhibitedly. I haven't seen them around before. A murmuration of birds swoops down the urban skyline, like a flying tribute to humanity's war on Covid. The office WhatsApp group signals a message: The picture of a lone peacock strolling around DIFC!
"Vava, did you see this? Why are birds back in our neighbourhood?"
"The Covid effect, dad?"
Will life be the same again post Covid? The Instagram icon flashes a message. "Enjoy this strange time of peace and solitude, my friend. For the sake of humanity and our planet, we must never return to 'business as usual'. There has to be a better way." It's my friend and British author Moyra Irving. Yet another message from my son in Munich: "For nearly a month, I have stepped out only twice to get some groceries." A video shared on WhatsApp plays a Covid parody of Tom Jones' Help Yourself.
I am still on the third para. I need to move on. Let me remember my late mum to divert attention. I close my eyes to reminiscence her story time. A troupe of Muslim Aravana Muttu players (Duff players) roams around the village under Petromax light. The world is under the grip of the pandemics cholera and smallpox.
"Amma, why are they beating the duff in the night?" I ask.
"They're praying to Allah to spare the world. Comeuppance comes in the form of illnesses. When our sins anger God, He throws a handful of punishments down to Earth. They fall on our body as smallpox." I close my eyes in prayers.
"Dad, you've crossed 800 words."
"No, I am still on the third para."
suresh@khaleejtimes.com