After the Rains

The rains were supposed to allay any misgivings that I had, but they didn’t. The storm swept across a wide expanse, and I could see the wind making waves of the droplets reflected in the half-daylight. I looked over to my husband, to gesture towards the visions outside our windows, but he shrugged me off pointing to his headset, going back to his meeting about “bugs” in software testing.

It was late in the day, and I had slept in. These days I sleep in just a little bit more, and eat more than I am supposed to, often giving myself a stomach ache. Last night, I gorged on pork belly slices doused in garlic chili oil, licking the oil off of my fingers, careless about my weak digestive system. Sure enough, an hour later, I was racked with cramps and acidity. I also had a sudden onset of a migraine, thanks to the building air pressure, the storm well on its way. As I moaned into sleep, the storm picked up outside, darkening all lights, near and distant.

Now, in the gray morning light, I strain my eyes to see Lake Ontario on the horizon—a shimmering blue band on a clear day—shrouded in mist. I am half reminded of winters in my birth city, Kolkata, where smoke and fog would produce a robust smog blanket to ensconce us in its embrace, hidden from the sky. Here, the sky is visible still, with low dark clouds engulfing us, reminding us we are still in this and in this together.

My counsellor called me yesterday, keeping our phone appointment. In another time, we would have met in her comfortable office on school campus, in plush chairs facing each other, me talking, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, mostly revealing my insides without shame. And she would nod, her calm voice soothing reason into my chaotic mind, making me feel safe for that one hour. Later, I would emerge from her office and make another appointment three weeks away, carrying a sort of lightness inside me.

Yesterday when she called, I sat in my bed, in a t-shirt and underwear, my hair in disarray. The day too was deceptively sedate as I looked into the distance, at flickering traffic lights, and one or two cars still on the streets. I couldn’t see her, but her voice had the same comfort as her office. I felt like I was in my regular life, that this was regular. After all, we had spoken on the phone once when I had needed an emergency appointment, and I had been okay after. This wasn’t very different from that, surely, except now I can’t really leave my house, or I am not supposed to anyway. And my husband is in the next room, working like it is a regular working day, unfazed by the current changes. He can’t understand why I am unable to compartmentalize like him, and just do what I would do on a Thursday at half past noon. But he commiserated, and cared enough to let me have the bedroom, with the door closed, while I talked too fast, tripping over my words, afraid I was running out of time.

The buses are still running; I catch a glimpse of one. The hours will be reduced as of tomorrow, with no fares. People who need to go into work will step out, putting themselves and their families at risk. Many won’t have masks to wear; masks more scarce than toilet paper.

My supervisor wrote to me two days ago, reminding me we are privileged to be able to work from home. And yes, I feel lucky, blessed, etc., to have clean running water, working internet, and a roof over my head, with enough food to get us through two weeks, maybe more, if necessary. I am able to order food too, if I choose to, except I must wear a mask and take the elevator to street level, and meet my delivery man outside the entrance of my building. I can see my family too, if I wish, but on video, as if we were in different countries, or continents, instead of a ten minute car ride away.

My husband thinks I am making a deal out of nothing. No one is going to die if we are careful, and just keep washing our hands and taking the right precautions. No, we are not going to die, but people we love might. If we are not careful, we could lose our families, without the comfort of a denouement; an unfinished mourning destined to haunt us for as long as we lived. Time moves in fast-forward, a week becomes a decade; a month, a lifetime.

A poet in the writing community lost his grandfather to the virus two days before his 82nd birthday. Later in the day—on the phone, of course—I told my mother about it.

“In Canada?” she exclaimed.

“No, Iran.”

“Yes, there it is really bad.”

After, I messaged a friend—a fellow academic and an ex-lover—who was in Iran.

“Are you safe?” I wrote.

He didn’t reply, but he saw the message. He must be safe, I hoped.

Playing Pandemic on my phone is the only thing that seems to calm me. In the game, it is easy to reduce people to statistics, as the virus, bacteria, or fungi, takes over the world, slowly infecting every person ever alive. My strategy is not to be noticed, to silently infect until there is not one single healthy person alive, and then attack. I attack aggressively. Organs fail due to hypoxia. Seizures lead to brain damage, then coma, then death. A cough evolves into pneumonia.

In the end, everyone dies. But I don’t win. I never win.

The rains have stopped now, the Lake the colour of the sky, a washed out white bed sheet, tinged with a hint of blue. The world is still, not yet devolved into anarchy. In the far distance, the farthest my eyes can go, I can see the faint imprint of the CN Tower, and the cluster of buildings that make up downtown Toronto. Lives are being lived. Everyone and everything is alive, even if it isn’t visible.