— Sadhana NJ
I’m standing at the grocery store in a socially distanced line, waiting to get my items billed. I look ahead, there are 3 people standing in front of me. It’s going to take some time because everyone buys monthly supplies these days. The man in front of me is middle-aged, with two children hovering around him. They are restless, they want the chocolates, they want to leave quickly, they want to play, the father looks like he’s used to this.
I see an old man to my side very carefully examining different brands of dal. He reminds me of my own grandfather who used to religiously buy groceries and vegetables with a list my grandma dictated as she did the Sudoku. My grandma is at home now. She doesn’t go out much these days and she does miss it. She has taken to tending our terrace garden and I have to admit, our plants have been doing much better since she took over. It has become our tradition to take care of them together. We have our tea and diligently water them every evening, looking for any potential threat. We’ve expanded our collection quite a bit to include some flowers and leafy plants (which I insisted on because they are more to my liking). She tells me about how she used to spend an hour in the morning tending to them before cooking when she was younger and how my grandfather used to get mad because he likes to eat his breakfast early. I can’t help but think about the gender roles at play but I laugh. She tells me about how she fought with her neighbour over a pumpkin that grew on the fence. We stay for the sunset before going back inside.
My phone pings, it’s my friend. She has been home quarantined for a while because her family tested positive. She sent me a meme on Instagram. I slide the notification away and refocus on the grocery store. I don’t see people often. I used to like being around people. I liked wondering about their lives, wondering about how I will probably never see them again but we have the shared experience of being at the same place at the same time. Isn’t that a big deal in a world with a population of a billion? Isn’t it not a big deal considering I don’t remember any of their faces? It makes me aware of the human being’s smallness but in a comforting way. We’re all tiny little specks of dust inhabiting a giant floating rock next to a ball of fire. Before another existential crisis sets in, I hum the tune to we’re here because we’re here to myself. I heard about this first on vlogbrothers. It was a song sung in the trenches of World War I to the tune of a New Year’s song by the soldiers who lamented about the meaninglessness of their life, that there was no answer to the “why”. John says hearing about this phrase made him understand that even if we didn’t know why we were here, we were together in this deeply interconnected “us”, and that we can proclaim that we existed and hope that we are here..
Anyway, I cherish my trips to the grocery store particularly these days. I have always enjoyed the mundane activities because it gave me a sense of comfort and normalcy. I loved doing the dishes at the end of the day because I knew I would perform this repetitive task for years to come and each day I would be thinking about something different. But now, grocery shopping is also my only connection to the outer world. The bargain of awareness of other people existing was somehow of immense value to me.
The line has moved up and the children in front of me are now distracted by the shopping cart. They meet my eyes and quickly hide behind their father. They forget about it soon enough and go back to the shopping cart. I cross a middle-aged man who has been on call the entire time with his wife giving him instructions about which aisle to go to and to get what. I’ve never seen my father do that. He’s a doctor so duty has always called him. Sexist practices are quite the norm in my family. Every time I fight with my parents about what clothes I can wear outside, I am reminded of why I wanted to leave home in the first place and the refuge I found in insti. No one cared if I wore shorts outside my room. I’ve been fighting a lot with them but I always console myself saying at least I don’t live in a toxic household, at least my home has been a safe space for me to heal. I think of my friends in abusive households and feel a pang of incredible pain at my helplessness. I’m really sad I can’t protect them. But at least they have a roof over their head…? At least they’re not losing their livelihoods with no access to healthcare, at least? they don’t have to worry about making it alive through the pandemic…? I’m not sure what to tell myself.
I see someone my age standing behind me, flippantly checking her phone. She looks familiar but thank God for my mask and my self-styled bangs, I know I won’t have to talk to her. I see her thumb moving and assume she’s scrolling through Instagram. I’m reminded of The Social Dilemma. What content is she seeing? My feed has lately been filled with news of Israel’s attacks. I had seen videos of Palestinian children recording sounds of their parents getting shot the previous day and decided I could not handle social media anymore. Not with my OCD and anxiety. I have been struggling to keep myself sane through the pandemic. There was so much going on and I wanted to talk about all of it. My country was literally burning around me with the COVID-19 deaths surpassing any other country in the world. I remember when I was part of the anti-CAA protests that came to an abrupt end with the beginning of the pandemic. What happened after? Australian bushfires, bois locker room, Black Lives Matter, police brutality and casteism, Hathras case, Amazon Forest being burnt down, US Elections between two old white men, regional elections closer home… this is not even an exhaustive list and I’m already exhausted. My brain can’t seem to order when what happened and it’s just a disorderly mess of events. I wake up to more depressing news everyday and worry about the state of the world. What is even happening? I worry about how I’m incapable of doing anything. I have been filled with a sense of empty stagnation. The New York Times calls this languishing and I find solace knowing that it isn’t just me. I tell myself I have to take care of myself right now to be able to do anything about any of this. I know it’s privilege that I can even afford to do this but what else can one do? I decided to get off social media because the bombardment of information was not helping. I check the news twice a day now, my life feels quieter, easier to handle.
There’s only one person ahead of me now. I look around me. The store is sparsely populated but I wonder about each of these people’s lives. I’ve been coming to this particular grocery store in my neighbourhood since my childhood. It is different from what it used to be then but the chocolate counter is at the same place. It was always my favourite. My sister and I used to come with my mom and I used to spend the entire time choosing my 2 chocolates for the month. I was overwhelmed by the decision but in a good way. I finished my chocolates on the walk home but my sister’s used to be in the fridge for weeks. Simpler times. Sometimes, I cannot believe this is my reality now. Have I really spent the past year locked inside my home? How have I spent as much time in insti as I have away from it? Time feels frozen and yet, so much has happened. The life from before seems like a different era, yet strangely close.
I continue wondering about the people around me, wonder what their struggles are, what their story is, the things they have seen, what this place reminds them of, how they like their morning coffee, what is their favourite song, how many tragedies do they have to swallow right now to appear ‘normal’? My phone pings again. It’s another person on smail asking for plasma donors… I have never been able to see those emails without my heart wrenching. How can an entire health system be failing so spectacularly? I have another new email, my End-Semester Assignment has been posted.
It’s finally my turn at the checking counter. I’m relieved because my “people-observing” (read: overthinking) had just made me think about how we, as humans, are collectively going through one of the darkest times in recent history. We’re bonded by our shared tragedies. It’s a young girl billing my items. Her mask isn’t fully covering her nose, it makes me uncomfortable but she quickly adjusts it. Did she notice my piercing gaze? I hope she was able to get vaccinated. I pay, take my bags, leave the store and sanitise my hands. I remind myself that this too shall pass, the phrase I’ve been clinging on to. I think about the origins of the phrase. Edward Fitzegerald retold the fable in 1848 but the phrase itself can be traced further back to the works of Persian sufi poets in the early part of the 19th century. How many times must this phrase have been uttered since then and in how many different contexts. It did pass. And I remind myself, again, that this will too.
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Article 19 