Suchismita tells us how Corona has changed her life, in a new weekly column, beginning this Monday. An exclusive for Different Truths.

I close my eyes in self-isolation from Corona and I wake up from an abrupt slumber. I wake up and brew my favourite cup of green tea flipping the pages of my diary. The unfinished stories now embrace me more, their dormant urge has suddenly caught a pace, and now they crawl up to me for fulfilment. I set my floating brain up for a moment, concentration on point and dip my heart straight to the blank paper to pen down my stories one by one.

Every morning a tune of ambiguous chant pesters all my attentiveness when it reaches my ears, I can clearly hear the transparent music of Gayatri Mantra. My maa, busy in managing household works, silently joins her hands for an unheard prayer, maybe in a wish to devote her prayers straight to Lord Shiva.

But these days are quite different. Every morning a tune of ambiguous chant pesters all my attentiveness when it reaches my ears, I can clearly hear the transparent music of Gayatri Mantra. My maa, busy in managing household works, silently joins her hands for an unheard prayer, maybe in a wish to devote her prayers straight to Lord Shiva. Her worries increase a little more every time she checks the headlines of death tolls and new cases. She always mentions that prayers clear all the doubts, all the sufferings, and all the hurdles at once. I never cared to pay heed to it as my own problems were solved with this trick. I thought the mantra is merely an amalgamation of some Sanskrit scriptures. I heave a long sigh now. My head unknowingly rises up and I can see my hands braided in order to share a prayer. Have I turned into a believer? Has Corona turned me into the aesthetic?

This is my inborn habit that I always curse myself to belong to this reckless twenty-first-century world that serves no remote to pause. Everything in this world is moving without any hint where to destine but for the sake of coping up with the pace, it makes sure to join the race. These days are one of those days when I express my desire repetitively to go back and take rebirth in the world of ’60s or ’70s where pausing was valued more, where people patronised art, where old civilisation took a bow to the ethnicity, where cellphones were not there to poke its sharp nose, where the air was immensely fresh and of course where there was no Corona – a human conspiracy to spread pandemic. Maa serves hot parathas on my plate and I start blabbering in front of her. I say, please go back to the ’60s, I can’t live in between the dust and darkness. In between our cold silent gestures, Corona silently enters in and giggles with its dusky intention.

This is my inborn habit that I always curse myself to belong to this reckless twenty-first-century world that serves no remote to pause. Everything in this world is moving without any hint where to destine but for the sake of coping up with the pace, it makes sure to join the race.

My unfinished stories these days are loitering in every nook and corner to pour all my heart to my art. They loiter from the streets of daily wagers to the homes of starving poor, then the vacant paths where stray dogs cry out of hunger, then the hospitals of the assiduous health workers, and bounce back touching the sinful desire of those who sneakily take their feet out of the home. Everything creates a whirlwind of emotions inside my head and I stop my writing. Wasn’t it obvious that during these days it was only the art to heal? What happened to me? Why do my art sting so much now? Corona might have blessed us with the recess for art but this art cuts my heart!

I am not a web series person. So, the chill of Netflix and Amazon Prime didn’t care to knock my door these days. But the drastic change in atmosphere penetrates through my skin lighting up my heart. I am hypnotised by the mellow tone of arresting sunset, chirping birds, clear azure sky, green leaves and letting them etch stories in my heart so that even after lockdown I can cherish them forever.

I am hypnotised by the mellow tone of arresting sunset, chirping birds, clear azure sky, green leaves and letting them etch stories in my heart so that even after lockdown I can cherish them forever. 

Nights are passing away with the thoughts if everything settles down again, the world must return back the pleasure of nirvana, the world must sing Sufis and gazals, the world must unfurl the doors of open minds, the world must stop comparing the weightage of money and this world, this damn world must turn into a lover; not the angry rebellion lover but the healer lover.

And now, at sharp 11:45 p.m, when I’m feeling extremely vulnerable and the feel of my heart hanging loose from its very dead end, I want the smell of my brokenness shouldn’t fade away just like people smudging away from the canvas of this world!

Photo from the Internet