It is a beautiful night. The air is crisp, and the moon is full. It is so big that even the waves of the ocean try to reach out for it. All I hear is sweet silence. There are people moving around without masks, a sight I am yet to get accustomed to. They look happy, happy to be healthy, happy to regain their freedom. I just finished a big portion of noodles for dinner. I am quite satisfied. A small sweet would be just perfect, and it lies within my reach.
In another part of the world, it is the brink of dawn. The misery doesn’t die out with the blinding sunlight. The people of this country love cricket, which is probably the best part of the post colonial hangover they still suffer from. Yet, in the midst of this pandemic, media has no room for the exciting ongoing cricket season. There are no hospital beds, no oxygen. The nation is crippling, with so many suffocating to death.
A few months ago, during lockdown, I stumbled upon one of mankind’s best inventions. It stood in a grocery store outside my hostel. I never tasted anything like this moist chocolatey goodness. It took me less than two days to devour it, the first time I got it. And then there was no turning back. One day, though, it just vanished. I searched the shop multiple times over, yet I never found it.
I cannot deny anymore that this stark contrast bothers me. Being in a faraway land, I cannot physically help. I am not rich enough to make a substantial contribution to relief funds. Who knows if online charities are really trustworthy. My uselessness troubles me, to the extent that I pray. One likes to believe that there is always something they can do to help. It is quite a strange feeling, akin to being locked in a luxuriously furnished room, with screams coming from just outside. You can hear it, cosily perched in a plush armchair, but you can’t stop it.
Six months have passed. I moved to a new locality. Sometimes, I would return to my previous abode, and look for the aforementioned chocolate cake. Today, I was walking down the bakery aisle of the grocery store in my vicinity. I was enjoying a song, and bumped into an aisle while experimenting with a rather hard dance step. Something fell at my feet. As I picked it up, a familiarity crept across my eyes. Indeed, after all this while, I had found it. All along, it had been hiding right under my nose, in one of London’s biggest supermarkets. Needless to say, I took a unit home.
Post dinner, as I scroll through social media, hungry for a distraction, all I see is pain. The cries for help are getting louder. The government seems to be at its wits end, the medical industry bursting at the seams. A new mandate has come out, advising people to wear masks at home as well. There isn’t any more the common man can be expected to do.
The moonlight shines on me. The strain of this train of thought has taken its toll, I am almost dropping off to sleep. With a heavy heart and a small prayer on my lips, I make my way to bed, being fully aware that the morrow holds just as many horrors, if not more.
As I fall into a deep slumber, my only escape from this torture, the chocolate cake remains untouched.
