My Ceiling Has A Fan - 17 Days Of Realisation in Quarantine

              If I were to officially state my name with designation completely, now it would be:

              Dr. Saurav Nayak, MBBS (AIIMS Bhubaneswar), Academic Junior Resident (Dept. of Biochemistry, AIIMS Bhubaneswar)

And, I solemnly affirm, I never wanted to be a doctor.

Ask my parents they will say I wanted me to be an astronaut. Ask my friends they will say they had no idea what I wanted to be. In fact, it would be true, I never knew as a child what I wanted to do as I grew up. Most things (except sports!) fascinated me, and I guessed I would prevail in any of them. I wanted the best of all worlds, but seldom as it happens, I also did fear turning out to be a jack!

Nowadays there are career counsellors, webinars on career development paths and strategy as well as parents & peers are well versed in the multitude of today’s education-job system that they can guide their wards & friends in the directions they never even had heard of. A decade ago, when I stood at the crossroad, it wasn’t remotely the same. It doesn’t mean that my parents were aloof of it or had no inclination of aiding me, but they, like me were clueless of what I was to be – the power to choose for someone comes with the scare of leaving better things behind.

I would have remained in a perpetual sense of dilemma hadn’t been for my grandfather. A bit of a side story, I have one paternal and two maternal grandfathers (sadly, my paternal grandfather and my elder maternal grandfather have passed away since 2009, but the younger one is to whom I am the closest). After the 10th exam results were out, there usually is a gap of a couple of months before the various coaching classes start, let alone college admissions. Where I was leaving there a summer-course was being organised and most of my friends went – but I didn’t, as my parents didn’t allow (topic for another story, some other day). It was just pure fate that while I was taking a ritualistic morning walk with him across the streets of Puri, he asked me what I wanted to be, and as normal I replied that I had no idea. A genius in reading people that he is, he asked me to say down the years what two things I would like to possess! Now that’s a very big question for a 17-year-old, and I just kept quiet! That day passed, and night befell – and I was still pondering!

The morning next, out of nowhere, on the beach I just said to him – “Power & Fame”!

Another detour –

If you would be wondering why power & fame? Why not money, or success, or houses, or cars! I was a 17-year-old in a time of cartons not GoT! And still what I wanted was “Power & Fame”! The reason, my biggest idol: My Father!

My father has been a Government Servant throughout his life, and quite a good one. We hardly talk! I would have written more words in my blog series than I would have talked with him – and yet he was, is and will be the biggest influence in my life. I have seen him toil hard and earn praise and friends. I have heard him talk wisely out of nowhere with such authority that will leave you astounded! Those for this adolescent were the most valued treasure, and that’s what I wished to pursue!

Then my grandfather quipped, “Try for IAS!” – and I laughed (Oh! Destiny thy cold vengeful heartless gender-neutral-pet-canine-animal-based-slur [in today’s world you don’t know whom you can offend when!]). Seeing my mood, he said again, “Why not Doctor?” And that stuck with me for a long time. One thing led to another, each an individual story of its own (which I would rather keep a secret, lest I have nothing to talk on a biriyani-date with someone”. Boom, 2018 January 30th and I officially am a doctor. Not a particularly good one, not a bad one – but quite medium average I would say modestly, and most those who know me after enough prodding of their humility will also accept! But I am proud of who I am, of how I help people - of how I can help my friends when they are in distress, and bring about some comfort amongst those who need it, friends, family, strangers immaterial!

What I have not been is being very vocal about the atrocities towards the healthcare professionals, and for that I receive a lot of flak. Usually I am quite vociferous about issues but violence against doctors is where I turn to silence. Often mocked, and often faced with anger from my peers – I have never given up that stance; not because I fear or am trying to be politically correct, but because I believe in a story I had read long back. In that story a group of swans want to explain to a group of crabs as to why they are to be valued and end up getting killed by those crabs, the moral being – someone who is arrogant and ignorant, someone who is opaque to the light of reason, there is no point in talking meaning to them, let alone protest! What we can use the two things we have – power & fame – to our use!

Power to heal & Fame of being the healer!

I love Tautology, with enough gratitude to the father of most-things, Aristotle! Well Hippocrates has been quoted, “Wherever the art of Medicine is loved, There is also a love of Humanity!” – Hence the converse would be that if there is no humanity, there is no love for the art of medicine, and extrapolating to those who practice it – the doctors!

If there is no humanity in whom the transition we seek, there will always be no love lost for us doctors.

       Music comes to me au naturale. My mother fondly recounts how I would sleep to the songs of Rafi and Mukesh. While growing up I saw my dad humming Odia bhajans at times and mom listening to Kishore. The radio in our home would play on from dawn till dusk without any interruptions – and thus I was hooked on to songs from my early days.

           Now the times are much different – we were the generation who had a cassette like our parents, but we also had a Walkman to portably play it. It was a pleasure to create mix tapes, curating songs, waiting for the exact name and film on music channels to pass the same to the cassette guy, and waiting for the final product was an experience to behold; and it continued till the advent of the CD. Now rather than 6 songs a-side, a CD could have 100 albums each having 7-8 songs, and that was a bust. CDs were in vogue, they were collected, burned, shared, and stocked (geez, I still have my entire CD collection since 2004, while my laptop doesn’t have a CD-player either). CDs & DVDs dominated the system, until the OG arrived, Internet. Now any song we would want to hear was just a few clicks away. It was an unprecedent level of accessibility and availability, and it was utilized to the maximal extent.

           For me, the allure to music was in phases.

           Firstly, in school till I joined college (that is +2) it was kind of a succession. (In ecology succession means gradual increase in complex lifeforms on a baren land – like a rock to rainforest transformation). I was inspired by what I heard with my parents, my friends, and all the speakers that used to blast publicly. From Puchuki Gali Fesana Bali to Pyaar Hua Ikraar Hua, there wasn’t a thing about genre then, it was all that could be acquired. Emraan Hashmi did a certain attention towards sensuous songs, but it was well balanced by likes of Sonu Nigam, KK, Shaan and many others who had their own niche and charm. The ball game entirely morphed by the advent of downloaded songs, and ample thanks goes to Samit (well, Somu Bhai deserves the actual credit for instilling in him a sense of good music, and by passing on the select lists, still!). Now we had access to Black Eyed Peas, Madonna, PitBull, JLo and what not! But then something happened and rap and hip-hop took over. Eminem, 50 Cents, Don Omar, Wisin n Yandel became our music Gods, whose lyrics we chanted and tunes we hummed. To all these Linkin Park & Eagles added the requisite emotions, while Enrique was always there when the need was something smooth and amorous. Apart from the obvious contribution of Homiii, two great friends – Loy and Govind – did shape the preferences a lot. If not for them, I would have never known, What Does The Fox Say!

           I had the privilege of studying at AIIMS Bhubaneswar – privilege not only because of it being an Institute of National Importance, but I got to share my living space with people of my age from all over India, with varied tastes, and we were just 50, so mingling and sharing wasn’t a rarity but an usual occurrence. This began my phase of exploration. Both of my roommates couldn’t have been polar opposites when it came to music – Pandu (Dr. Praveen Kumar Panda, an excellent artist and future surgeon) would play Vika Zigulina’s Desert Rain or listen to funky bass drop beats whereas Sabu (Dr. Shubham Samal, excels in every sport and future surgeon too) would dance to Hawwa Hawwa (the old one) and blast out every barajatri (hard to explain – groom’s procession during a marriage!) song ever known! But then I also picked up Lipistick from my Bhojpuri-loving friends, Parayuvan from my Malayali guys, and when all of us had to create ruckus together, we just shouted – “Ho-Ho”, and that’s music to these nostalgic ears of mine.

           It did not stop there, I went international. My playlist would be a world tour – listening to Kuzu Kuzu by Tarkan, followed by Khalleed’s Cest la Vie, diving to traditional Japanese tones in A Samurai’s Death and then jamming to Daft Punk & Pharrel’s Get Lucky – I could visit every place just with a next click; and that was something spectacular. Not for my neighbouring room though – he always complained that I needed to find a stability in my music – to go from an Odia bhajan to an Ukranian lullaby, and everything in between,  within 30 minutes, was too hard for him to suffer. What happened next could be better imagines, as he did buy a noise-cancellation headphone set (and he is a surgeon too!).

           The final phase is one of admiration. The complete credit of which goes to two guys and an old young man, Bhuvan (Dr. Bhuvan Yadav – dedicated Microbiologist and a up-and-ready for most things after a peg-of-single-malt guy), Anirban (Dr. Anirban Kundu, Pathologist & soon to do Liver biopsy cum reporting of self), and Ashish bhai (Dr. Ashish Dash, goes by weird Insta & Twitter handles – claims to have had a tryst with the dinosaurs, yet has a young heart – which sometimes fails to beat properly) respectively. From Halka Halka Suroor to Late Her Go I could now find meaning in songs. Old Hindi songs I was quite familiar with and Ashish bhai just helped me relieve those again, but the real deal was finding Bhuvan’s playlist (how it was formed can never be disclosed, and he says it is a dynamic living organic process, and will continue forever. Amen!). By this time listening to Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd, John Mayer and the bunch, I could well say, by their music, I was comfortably numb.

           These phases matured gradually like in a distillery, slowly getting the smoky-peaty taste and the oak-cherry smell; and with each Angel’s Share getting a tone smoother and going up a note higher. 

           There was neither any erasure of moments nor ceasure of acquisition; it was just that each of them just kept holding on to song next forming an ever-updating playlist that I would play forever, transferring as inheritance to my generations to come. From the gibberish of Non-Odia Bhoota to the emotional pang of Wake Me Up When September Ends, from the romance of Truly Madly Deeply to the veracity of Rap God – every piece of music, every tune, every chord has a story to tell, if you have a pair of ears and heart to spare.

           Given a chance on my deathbed, if I could pass away into the after-life with a song playing in my background, I would choose, Mayuri Go! (even if you don’t know or till now have no inclination towards Odia songs, I would earnestly suggest you to have a listen!)

           I am not a fan of watching new movies or series on any OTT sources. I would rather watch Kachra take the run on the last ball or hear Ross shout that he was on a break any day rather than take over a new commitment. When someone suggests me to watch a documentary, they usually are met with negations. But this time it was Sunil who suggested watching something! On a sidenote, if someone who has no inclinations for cartoons asks you to do a tour of Disneyland, you definitely do it right? It was the same with Sunil asking to do something! But then he had said it, so it was important, and thus a couple of days back, on the very fateful eve, I watched “The Social Dilemma” on Netflix.

           To give you a perspective, in case you haven’t yet watched it or aren’t going to even before reading this article, this documentary binds together various interviews of top Silicon Valley executives and managers, raising concern about the addiction that is technology and social media and has extrapolated it into a virtual, albeit true and practical real life scenario. It shows all the vicious sides of the industry, and the non-mala fide interests of the corporations to adversely affect you, but also being ostrich-headed when comes to on-field scenarios of their developments, decisions, and desires. It breaks the subject into very very relatable scenes which I am sure we all would have faced someday or the other, and so it creates a hinge which keeps you hooked. An hour and forty minutes after I had that thousand-yard stare, and I called Sunil, had an extensive talk, hung up –

- And posted a status: “The Social Dilemma is a must watch”.

Why?

Because that’s what someone should do right?

Some 20,000 years ago when the Woolly Mammoth was as close to Delhi as the nearest whale is now the first of the humans posted the first picture in a cave at Lascaux, France. The same was done a few thousand years latter at Bhimbetka, at the Uluru as well in the jungles of Central America. When civilizations grew, they found that the most suitable and convenient way for an idea to travel is through a gossip. A gossip isn’t peer reviewed; it is just a personal release. Myths, legends, stories, folklores, smriti-shruti, anecdotes, anonymous quotes and in the 21st century a post – status, gif, video, or even a blog for that matter – are what create a chain of information, neither factual nor fictitious – but somewhere in between; And that is the cornerstone of every group and gang, of every clique or cult.

Quitting social media is the new quitting smoking!

Every weekend one decides that this week is the last, and that cycle runs for perpetuity. We delete our Twitter handles, our Instagram pages, our Facebook profile in a feat of rage – post a breakup, or perhaps because of an academic failure, or better, not having enough time for priorities – but then a few hours of absence draws us back again, weaker and more bent than before. We are smart people, and even the flimsiest minded of us knows what adverse consequences social media puts us in and leads us to, yet we hang on, I hang on!

5 years back I quit Facebook, and very intermittently I would login for a couple of days and then deactivate. I had my reasons, reasons which will go to my grave! But then I was hooked on to Instagram. I could show off my writing, cooking, travel, photography, books, and booze quite ostentatiously – and I was loving it. Then I joined Twitter to increase my reach, and voila, I was amidst it again. The constant scrolling, refreshing, updating, and posting followed. It was not long ago that I was living the life of Sisyphus.

So, when I watched the documentary, I did it with a shame of sycophancy attached. I kept admiring the facts, the vision, the ideas, the pace and above all the understanding and enlightenment they were preaching. But, did not I know that? Was I living under a rock to not know how I am being advertised - socially targeted, politically motivated, and subconsciously instigated - To a cause, or, to a change; to a place, to a practice or to a person! I surely did, but I believed that I was in control of it and I could leave whenever and wherever I wished for, at my terms. Not as a pledge of promise, but upon my preference. As if I were gone, where would I express my emotions, surely there would be nowhere left to showcase my talent and gain a follower or win a heart; and there thusly, I was a hypocrite. I guess, we all are, isn’t it?

When I was in school, like all of us, we picked up English songs because they were cool to hum along. Gradually you would read the lyrics of a few to know the song better, and those were the ones which stuck. A decade later, I realized, when The Eagles sang, “… you can check out any time you like, but you can’t ever leave.” – was true to its last syllable.

           I would like to begin with congratulating His Hon’ble PM N.D. Modi on his 70th birth anniversary. Coincidentally my tryst with politics also begins with BJP, his party and the current incumbent one; and it is quite an odd one!

           The second time late Shri A.B. Vajpayee took oath as the PM of India, I was a mere half a decade old. My parents were ardent admirers of him, and they were busy watching the swearing in ceremony. It was those times when there were no easy recordings available (and definitely no YouTube), so to relive that moment was only through memory, and my parents were fondling etching the moment into theirs. And there I was creating ruckus all around and in the heat of the moment, as my mother vividly describes it, while Vajpayee ji was about to take oath I stood firmly in front of the TV and choose that moment to disobey all verbal orders. As what follows, when you do that is less verbal and more active – it was the first, and the only time, when I got a slap from any of my parents! I don’t remember a thing about it, but it’s a lore which I have fondly embodied.

           Till 2009 politics for me was just general knowledge. It was the who’s who which I had to know to crack Olympiads and I was quite good at it. I used to have discussions with my grandparents (and I bet you the  treasure trove that they were, can’t possibly be matched by anyone) regarding their times and lives, but it was mostly stories which I loved to hear. At home, my parents and their friends actively debated the various political scenarios and stances; and overhearing those framed my early ideas of my political world.

           What polished these initial ideas were a facile reading of some contemporary issues – issues like the 1962 & 1971 wars, the emergency, the short reigns of the alternative governments and the Ayodhya as well as the Godhra issues. A dive into these matters, let however shallow, helped shape the clay that was being moulded. Something changed in 2009 – the vote counting day in my earnest mind I was rooting for BJP to win. I did not know the dynamics of election, the moods, the waves, the incumbency, and any jargons – I just rooted for them, no different from how I would have rooted for India in a cricket match (unless it is against Australia! – Call a guy, Abhijit Mishra, quite popular, goes by the name of Homiii, and ask him to explain, & then I am sure I am being lynched), or for the Undertaker in WWE.

           The vase that was being shaped in 2009 got its final form in 2014.

           Let me take this moment to make it transparent that I am a proud Hindu – I take pride in my Gods, religion, traditions, texts, cultures, and every variation it has to offer. That doesn’t necessarily mean that I deride other faiths, I believe they are important, their teaching sacrosanct and their preachers and professors equally sagacious. However, that doesn’t deviate me from mine. I am now and was then too fairly convinced that Hinduism in its truest from is a lifestyle, and as each of us has a genre preference we live, harmoniously, accordingly. Hindutva as a concept of negative connotation and ideology isn’t something, I have viewed it with nor will I. Those who both preach differently or practice violently, as well as those who are convinced enough of the ill and the evil may differ from me, but I firmly stand by my own faith. What differs is my religious sentiments and my political alignments.

           By 2014 I was well into my adulthood and I had a sense of basically what inherently I am. I had read and researched, however flippantly, and from whatever I understood, I rooted for a party that was politically right winged and economically centre-left. Now this wasn’t something that came to me academically or through my pursuit of knowledge, but awoke inside me as I had thoughtful talks with my friends and family, had a working knowledge of how things in the world and India were through various forms of news & media, as well as importantly one Dr. Jagadish Prasad Mishra (his story is a blog of its own! Someday I will definitely visit those higher echelons of anecdotes that he is).

           Neither I was nor am I know driven by religion into politics, however people say me otherwise. I have my appraisers as well as my detractors – and for none of them am I a Bhakt ­– a bhakt of, say Lord Jagannath or Hanuman or Ganesh, surely; but of an ideology, a cult, a party or a person; Never! That will go against my constitution. But in these times, a support is seen as fervour, a defence as condoning and a genuine likeness as sycophancy.

           What we have forgotten, we all, is that we all can agree to disagree. It is a matter of identifying yourself with a particular set of attributes. Shashi Tharoor, Omar Abdullah, Prakash Karat, Pranav Mukherjee, Sarad Pawar, and many others have never belonged to the ideology that I rooted for, not religious but political, and yet I revered them for their traits, and not their loyalties. Similarly, whom I support when they blunder, I do believe in vehemently opposing them as in case of CAA, or horse-trading to bring down elected governments or even when they have pitched the religious fork – those have been equally condemned.

           We have easily accepted the acceptance of humans having varied sexual orientation, and yet its hard for us to digest how can the other person’s ideological stance, political loyalty or simple religious faith be any different from ours. That’s where we go fundamentally wrong, our convictions make us rigid and we being stiff boughs, either break or beat.

           In the end, to quote, Dr. Shashi Tharoor, “… the whole point is that India is the nationalism of an idea. It's the idea of an ever-ever-land, emerging from an ancient civilization, united by a shared history, but sustained, above all, by pluralist democracy. That is a 21st-century story as well as an ancient one. And it's the nationalism of an idea that essentially says you can endure differences of caste, creed, colour, culture, cuisine, custom and costume, consonant, for that matter, and still rally around a consensus. And the consensus is of a very simple principle, that in a diverse plural democracy like India you don't really have to agree on everything all the time, so long as you agree on the ground rules of how you will disagree.”

The title and the picture above (and it is a collage of all the food I have cooked ) would have clearly made it obvious that the post is going to be on food { and if you could decipher the GoT undertones, DM me ;) }.  Hence, if you have any interest in eating or cooking then read on, else, still give it a read, who knows might fall in love with food and be craving for it.

              Now those who know me even a little bit, can well attest to one fact that I love food. People call themselves foodie, I call myself a food fanatic, and my love for it knows no bounds. So naturally I do love cooking as much as eating because it opens up new frontiers. 

           So, let us make a seven-course meal of words.

           I never even tried to recall when and how I started loving to eat, it always felt that I came packaged with that feature, cooking on the other hand is a different story altogether. It was a similar condition as now, closed within four walls in a tightly packed students’ residential area of Delhi preparing for IAS/Med PG did not leave much for recreation or relaxation. YouTube was a soulmate, and when my ex (Blessed Be Her Soul!) and I broke up I possessed a lot of free time in hand and pent up energy to be utilized. So, what did I do?

Turned to Gordon Ramsay for respite. And within a year have churned up a lot of delicacies and memories.

           In isolation I did have some time to research and think upon as to how I would go about my scenario. First, I thought of going just plain continent wise, but as I studied more, I did find that culinary culture isn’t about political or geographical barriers but are bound together by complex traditional and social links. Biranz or just rice in old Persian region becomes the coveted Biryani in South East Asia. A French Parfait meaning perfect when combined with fruits, nuts, yogurt and liquor just becomes as American as it can get. Be it a coastal town of Mozambique, Tanzania or the Juhu beach of Mumbai, what’s popular is the vada pav and garam bhajji. A simple vegetable as brinjal, growing in the Africa and SE Asian region gets famous as Moussaka in Greece to Berenjenas de Almagro a popular dish in Spanish speaking parts of Latin America.

           To begin with I needed a salad, and I was plagued by choices – from Asian Noodles salad to Coleslaws and from modern Granola Yogurt salads to an Australian vegemite egg salad there were tons of options. However, I decided to take it to the extreme and if I were to start with salad let it be some form of extreme – like, Antarctica! A slab of frozen coleslaw salad which had been boiled in its packet and served. A classic start keeping you occupied and yet wanting for the entire course.

           The major battle raged between the Hors d’ouevere and the appetizers. Though used interchangeably they are different in the purpose they serve. A Hors d’oeuvere (pronounced as ors-DVERE) is a starter which is bite sized and doesn’t necessarily be in line with the cuisine that is being served. Hence it comes in handy as to creating a diversity on the plate as well on the palate. Appetizers on the other hand, form a basic part of the menu, often complementing the dishes that are yet to come. For my Hd’o I turned to a classic Sub-Saharan delicacy, Kamba wa Nazi (which is Prawns cooked in Coconut base) and combined it with a base of Mechouia, which is a Tunisian dish famous in the NAWA region (North Africa & Western Asia) as well as the Maghreb region. For the appetizer I am turning to South America, and what better than the best export of them to India – Potato! A creamy, cheesy Papas da Huancaina (Potato in Huancayo Sauce, which is made out of yellow peppers), a time “tasted” Peruvian legacy will serve as the perfect appetizer.

           With all these heavy ammunition already fired there should be a gap between the culinary foreplay and the main course, and what best way it can be done by using a mignardise as a palate cleanser. These are usually bite sized dessert served at the end of the meal, but also act well as to supplement the ongoing course and to prepare one for the upcoming ones. I had hordes of options to eliminate including special ones which I would love to eat any day but keeping in mind the various regions to cover I stooped down below the equator and picked up Lamingtons from Oceania. Now these are butter cake or sponge cake coated in an outer layer of chocolate sauce and rolled in desiccated coconut. Commonly a variation also is to use a layer of cream or strawberry jam between two lamington halves.

           The palate having been amply rested and keeping the audacity of the main-course in mind its time to serve a sparkling Ice Wine from Canada, the best wine there ever can be. It is a type of dessert wine produced from grapes that have been frozen while still on the vine. The sugars and other dissolved solids do not freeze, but the water does, allowing for a more concentrated grape juice to develop. The grapes' must be then pressed from the frozen grapes, resulting in a smaller amount of more concentrated, sweet wine. Thus, perfectly up-ing the ante for the main course.

           The allure of food is what draws you towards it, and how is this allure created: by praises, appreciation, and an expectation to eat combined with a “so close yet so far” nature of it. For almost a year I have been hearing the best meal one could have is at Peter Cats by ordering a Chelo Kebab. Now that’s Asia-defining, so let me take you to a lil’ bit of history! Considered the National Dish of Iran, chelow (meaning rice) is eaten with kebabs (which are staple of Middle Eastern meat dishes), and is served with accompaniments such as butter, sumac powder, basil, onions, and grilled tomatoes. Together they form a chain of food links extending from the erstwhile Ottoman empire to the coasts of Myanmar. But then we say Asia is so extensive, how will one cover it with just some Persian dish, and to that I say, Miso Soup! Originating in Japan it has its own variants ranging from Korean peninsula to Indonesian archipelago – a low carb, high protein to equally compliment a fat and carb reach of the chelow kebab.

           All done and dusted, there is any space left at all you will enjoy your classic French parfait whilst alternating between wanting more of certain things and shallow breathing with a barrel stomach!

           All said, (and written), this is something I am aiming for – to cook for my friends, family, and me. A gala dinner with all the courses, maybe to celebrate something maybe just for fun. That’s the best thing about food – you don’t need an occasion for it to be good. You just need a good stove, skillet and a spatula, all condiments in a cauldron, and voila! The dinner is served!

          To end this scrumptious eve with some food for thought. The epitaph of the famous astronomer, William Herschel reads, “ Coelorum perrupit claustra ” (He broke through the barriers of the heavens). If any day a cenotaph of me is ever erected (as I want my body to be donated to science), I would love it to read, “Cibus perupit claustra” - and I am just trying to play cool, don’t put that phrase in a Latin to English, please!

                         It is the 8th day of my quarantine and the past one week has made it clear that it isn’t just a walkover. I hadn’t thought it would be so and it turned out exactly the same. If you take my word on face value, every 24-hour cycle seems so different from the other that you will feel living a new day every day. But having said that, as you are enclosed within a non-dynamic system which isn’t changing at all, you can all but wonder, how miserable it seems.

           I miss being out. I really do. I am not that fresh air, sunshine kind of person but I love a stroll (on my Aviator, not my legs!). My routine, however mundane, was something I could find a diversion from a new one every day. From going out to visit  a new food stall to an old one; a short ride till the chowk or a long drive to Puri – anything was a possibility. That’s where I suffer.

           The probability of an opportunity keeps us hoping for it. We cross our fingers, pray to God, bribe Him, make wishes on a shooting star – Why? Because, we know that there is some possibility of it happening and this will just up the chance. That’s a contract which we make with time and stay true to stand by our side of the deal, not expecting time to play its part. But, that expectation is what drives us. Every text we reply to, every talk we engage in forms an integral component of something that we are expecting. Isolation kills that expectation and the probability seems to shrink.

           I know I may make many people sad, angry so much so that they even want to question me,, but I didn’t like the Harry Porter series (except for the character of Snape, as Alan Rickman can do no wrong!). Though I have watched all the series and have liked the action, I felt that the screenplay was off, and I never even happened to read the books. However, I got really fascinated by the Dementors (or as you might remember them, Dampisach!). Those wraith-like Dark creatures, widely considered to be one of the foulest to inhabit the wizard world, and they suck the happiness and soul out of people that they come across and leave them with empty despair.

I would say that to be in isolation is like getting tutored by a Dementor.

The major way it affects is by making you vulnerable to the weakness which generally wouldn’t have mattered anyway. It reduces your threshold of apprehension and every heavy breath you take will feel like  a symptom (coupled by the fact that I am COVID positive too). Good memories are hard to find as nothing about them seems exciting, as each of them proceeds to a memory which can’t be lived thence. It keeps you expecting for a soul uplifting moment, and each such wait drowns itself in vain. Thus, day by day it does seem quite worthless to keep trying while the edges of elation are silently and slowly being gnawed away.

However – there is always a Patronas charm!

In my case, they take different forms too!

Sometimes it is a friend who calls or messages, sometimes it's just someone who has brought food for me. Everyone who asks how I am doing and everyone who has wished a recovery – all of you are my Patronas. A living system needs something to keep going, and that something becomes someone for us – and as long as that exists, isolation of Dementor, all can be defeated.

These seven days have made me value a lot of things – time, windows, clouds, even my corridor which I miss the most – value of things which I usually wouldn’t even have pondered about. Isolation as a situation brings out the hidden you, by keeping aside the person whom you knew well. It doesn’t necessarily always bring out the best – but who takes the charge depends entirely on us, you and me.

   I often state to whoever asks me on a call, “What are you doing?”, I more often than not reply, “Staring at my fan!”. It’s not that I do it because I am bored, but I sleep and talk most of the times and my fan is straight up, and I get fixated to it. Such an elegant piece of art it is thanks to me not having cleaned it since ages. And as clockwork whenever I say that, I am always asked, “Are you an introvert?”

How often have you been on the receiving end of this phrase: “You seem to be an introvert/extrovert”?

           I am sure – a lot! I have too, but in the gradual course of time I came to be labelled as a transparent extrovert and the questions stopped. Though I have witnessed, silently though, many friends of mine being barraged with the same question over and over again. They have found a novel solution too – “Ambivert”.

           And the categorization raises on!

           Once you start digging into the history of it, it starts even making lesser sense. Introvert was an amalgamation of intro meaning inside and vertere meaning to turn. In this form, meaning a spiritual self-realisation of sorts has been prevalent since the mid-17th century. However, its current connotation, along with that of extrovert and ambivert can be traced to Carl Jung who in the early 2oth century used it in his principle of psychology to explain various behaviour and character types. Hence, for a layman it then caught up based on what and how people interact with them. Though it sounds on the contrary but a person’s “version” kind of depends on whom he or she is addressing to.

           I take pride in my network of people and trust me an ample number of them are “textbook introverts”. They enjoy themselves, for them a free time would be to stay indoors and tend to plants or read a book, or Netflix and Chill; or just sleep. A weekend for them indoors in what they feel like to reenergize; whereas you may bask in the sun they would love to chill in AC, where you may love your movie in a multiplex with popcorn they love theirs in a blanket with a cup of hot chocolate. That’s their preference.

           To take nothing away from the other -verts too, they are as essential in their own way. They can amp up a funeral, let alone a party.

            I do love both the sides of the coin. Sometimes its just peaceful to be lazy and slumber in the bed the whole day, and at times it’s fun just to run amok on a beach. Even during the pandemic where most had to work from home and stay indoors, I still had to go to the lab or go to the department – and the work which generally felt tedious and mundane everyday did give some sort of solace as it was the means of escaping the four walls I had been fettered to. When confined to them as isolation, that was something which was unprecedented.

           Our walls know us – they have heard our deepest secrets; they have seen our craziest dances. They were there when you flirted for the first time or said a bye for the last. Our saddest sobs and happiest smiles will echo forever in the room which were in, and thus the better part of us will always stay there. And yet we when they become a common-sight, day in and day out, they make u feel cramped and shut. Maybe that’s the reason we decorate them, hang art on them, beautify them. Maybe because they tend to be the reflections of who we are rather than what we are.

           In today’s times anything you can do to keep your spirits up is always welcomed. If tired of talking to people, talk to your walls – you will find a unique variety of conversation. A sort of introspection, tales lost to oblivion and some encouragement for the future you.

 It was a norm which I hadn’t known of as I had never been away from home. Being alone to fend for myself was a peculiar interest of mine. I guess at that age and limited perception that most of us would have, we all must have had felt that thrust of independence to some extent. It is a novel experience for most – the time when breaking away from norms seems insightful, and a lack of routine and responsibility was the ruse of being self-reliant.

Nothing turned out the way it seemed.

           My mother is a jovially strict and profoundly paradoxical person. Growing up our parents are our superheroes. Their stories, their lives, their struggles form a sort of internal folklore: the various idiosyncrasies, approach and aspects is what we take pride in within our peer groups. That phase, while it lasts, is a phase of veneration towards our parents. In that stage, I did envy many of my friends who were closer and more open to their mothers or fathers than I was, or I presume I could be. For their stories were more intricate – they could share their days’ worth over the dining table, while all the excitement I had or the grief I imbibed lay obliterated by the sheen in my eyes.

           When the reverence subsides a sense of detachment surfaces. There is no negative connotation to it whatsoever. She has and always will want the best for me – though I had reached a point in time, when I knew what was best for me without any empirical evidence for the same. There always existed this conflict as to who I was to be and what my parents are wanting me to be. I have fought with her over things like why I am not allowed to stay out after 7p.m, not allowed to sleep till 10 in the morning, not allowed to go somewhere and many such reasons. Though now when I write I am letting it go with a chuckle, then it was a matter that hardly got erasure with mere sobs and tears. There were protests, I have cursed them in my heart, I have hoped ill happened on them – and the very next moment I have regretted it – but at that point I was adamant enough to believe in something trivial to be ostentatious enough to make me do what I did.

I always tend to keep my writings under-5-minute read.

I would like to break away from that today though and share a story.

I was in a different town and we had to return back to our place by noon. I had promised my then girlfriend to meet her at a specified place at a specified time in the eve. Due to certain issues my father altered the plan to return at night, and that, yes that, made me vociferously angry. I stuck on the fact that I had to go by noon, as I had commitments to keep – and that’s what I did. Against their repeated advice, I got up on a bus and went off into my fairy world, just to be stopped half an hour later by a violent mob (someone in the village had died of accident). What was I to do then? Whom do I retort to? Whom do I ask for help? I did eventually manage to reach my destination but that gave me the most fearful day of my life. The rest of the arduous journey I undertook, I remember chanting the Hanuman Chalisa without pause, deriding myself and deciding to never ever go against their wishes.

           The next weekend I ended up doing something they wouldn’t have wanted me to do.

           And she isn’t a fool, she is the smartest person I have ever known. She knows each and every step I can take, will take, have taken and would have taken. Yet she plays along, my tens of lies and shams, without even giving a hint that she knows who I am. Whenever cornered and amazed I ask as to how did she know or guess what I would have been up to, she just smiles and says the same thing over and over again since the past two decades of my life – to paraphrase, “I kept you in my womb for 9 months and everything that comes after that goes through me first!”. There never has been a day that has gone by without me realising it.

           Suddenly one day it all stopped, I was let free. I returned from a party after midnight I wasn’t chided. I could talk over phone at 2 AM in the morning and I wasn’t asked a question. I wondered what happened – the first thought being, did they give up on me? I found out they hadn’t but were wise enough to let me be who I was when the time was right. I was a loaf of mud when they took me in, moulded me, shaped me, baked me, painted me – and made me, me enough to win every bid that I could ever come across. They did it with me, they surely would have done it with you; and we will do it our wards too.

           The more I look back at it, the more it fascinates how we think about certain stuff. When we lie to a friend, we are always worried what if he or she finds out. When we cheat in a relationship, we take every step to cover it well enough to stay buried. When we pretend being something which we aren’t we remember to stay in character for that person forever. So, why do we do that to our mother? Neither we would be judged, nor dumped nor ostracised, then why? Is it because we take her for granted, or she is it because she cares any less? Or, is it just that she is out of zone, in regard to the current us in the current times?

           For me, the answer maybe is that I know she will forgive me always. Still, there are things I know that aren’t approvable to her – and I wouldn’t want to disappoint a mother by breaking the image of her son that she so securely treasures within. Maybe, I care for her way more than I can ever show and my subconscious just makes it easy to escape the situation resorting to a harmless lie than to face her with my conflicting truth. In any case, mothers don’t lie; we do for reasons which we can’t justify with any bravado.

           She does call me every night – at times I end up talking for a second, at times I end up  talking for an hour; sometimes I chide her as to why she should talk every day and some days she is too tired to talk and still calls for a second before she sleeps. If by chance I call, there is a different something in the voice, may be that day she gleefully says to that someone she prays before sleeping, that I had called her today. I don’t know! If you get a chance ask her, I am too embarrassed to.

           When I was a child, we used to have a comic rendition of the Ramayana called “Prabachana” (loosely translated as ‘sermon’ in English). Those times of cassettes and Walkman have long gone, and yet my mom still repeats her favourite dialogue, “Pua kuputra heipare, hele maa kebe kumata hueni” (“There can be bad sons, but a bad mother never exists”). Subjectively, I wouldn’t say I am bad, objectively I don’t know – but one thing I am sure of is, if I had someone who really could go against every convictions, belief, faith, bond and relation for someone quite undeserving, it would be my mom.

              I don’t stand at any vantage point to preach or profess about the benevolence or banality of life. What I can provide is the only perspective that I have been aware of, and that is my own. To put it in the fewest words: Life is a very symmetrical matrix of your best clichés and worst glitches.

           I never realized that I tended to be manipulative and diplomatic until it was pointed out to me. In essence I would always have my ends meet, never had given a thought about the means. Gradually when I developed bonds more than friendship, a sort of camaraderie, I realized there was nothing wrong about those means, but do they justify the ends. There was nothing irrational, there was nothing that would have nudged my conscious, but was it the same with my conscience – “No!”

           I grew up in a family of very caring, but strict parents. Strict in aspects of behaviour, habits, manners and mostly morality. As much as I could infer, they adhered strongly to a rigid moral compass, which I couldn’t decipher the value of. It was hard for me to understand at that stage that if I said or did something just keeping my interest in the midst that doesn’t justify the chain of events it creates. To be honest there was not any concept of interest then too, it was all that suited to make things easy for me, and it carried on quite well till the time the chain of events were not small to contain and had linked effects. That was a phase of reconciliation, a deal between the wants of mine and what others wanted of me – a contract between by acts commissions & omissions.

           Seldom does the matrices of life run without errs, and the biggest errors turn up when the stakes are the highest. In all these years the most valued abstracts have changed – from abstract to acquaintances, from laudations to love, there has been a serial change in what we perceive as the most priced. However, the one that matters the most is how invested you are: for something or in someone. As in economics you always strive to maximize your dividends while taking the minimal risks, the same is extrapolated into one’s life. And even then, the battle between means and ends rages on; Whose side we take depends where our interest lies. Thus, bringing the cycle back to where I started.

           But now, wiser as I had been, I had a tool, a construct, a semantics at my disposal – I have a motive, but not the intent. I might have wanted to hurt you, maybe I did, but I did not mean to explicitly. I might have wished ill of you, but what incident occurred wasn’t what I had intended to. In a relatively rational society it does justify everything that’s not a crime without any burden on the soul – but in a grander sense of things does it hold ground? It depends on when you ask. When I was left alone it was abandonment but when I left it was a choice. When I was lied to it was to subvert but when I lied it was to protect. When I wasn’t reciprocated it was unfair, when I did not it was just.

           It is not that I am being the devil’s advocate and defending not being ethical, but it is what comes naturally to me, and I would assume to the vast majority to you too. It is just that I, you, we all tend to have some threshold as to where our moral guidance system gets activated – I may not be the same with a friend and an acquaintance – in every case we draw an algorithm that lets us decide our acts, motives and intents. There is no particular subjective test that determines a saint or a sinner. To quote Nelson Mandela, “I am not a saint, unless you think of a saint as a sinner who keeps on trying.”

           The vista is the same, the view is different. How I behave is different to how you would to a given person in a given scenario. Yours might be prudent, mine might be practical – but in the end all that will matter is how does the scene pan out. And as long as it keeps coming in our favour, we might tend to rationalize the ebbing of the means to attain the ends. Lest the time comes when we can’t justify such a self-conceived norm, we may always retort to the fact that it is not the hand that thinks to strike who is at fault, but the hand that actually does is the culprit. Either way the perception of your act will be judged and acted upon – not you per se.

           When a civilisation collapses, becomes stagnant, is buried under the sands of time – since the endgame of an era who becomes the most important person to have ever lived?

            The answer would be “The Chronicler”.

That one person, whose opinions, whose perspective, whose biases, prejudices, and fallacies all of a sudden acquires an unparalleled significance, a treasured written history. That guy possesses something extraordinary – a story, a coherently scrambled set of words which will echo through the echelons of time-space continuum. That story becomes a journey for others who couldn’t have been there in time, and thus the storyteller becomes the fenestra through whom one tends to see the world that is gone.

           It is hard to demarcate the end of a day and beginning of another when you are thus confined. Sleep is a great divider though but again it varies. Hence, in most scenarios time overlaps. It was around midnight when my phone buzzed, I get messages at night but not calls – but then when I looked at my screen, I just smiled. “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”, I chuckled.

Hold that thought for a second; let me plan you an itinerary.

           One attribute that comes to you naturally, if you have had to change a lot of schools, is the uncanny ability of making friends with ease. Having already changed 3 schools, I had been adept at befriending people. Imagine a 10-year-old chubby guy with a Milton water bottle dangling along his neck onto his belly, standing at the dehlij of the classroom, with a raised hand, requesting permission to enter the classroom – imagined, eh? Okay! Now, post COVID 19, book a ticket to Philadelphia, go to Drexel University and ask wherever the hell they teach Business Analytics. Once you’ve reached there, ask for an Indian guy with a man-bun who often looks as if he were ‘high’ pertinently, and ask him to imagine the same. Give him nothing more than a second, and he will raise you a question, “Was it Sandhya Miss’ class on Van Ek Sampada” – and bam! Congratulations, you would have found the first guy.

Wait a minute! Don’t get high. I know he would have offered you with a charming smoothness the best of times, it would be tempting but remember you have a flight to catch.

           Book a ticket to Bhubaneswar with a one day stop-over at Bengaluru. I will give the guy your number, but rest assured from the time you touchdown on the tarmac and as typical of us Indians, frantically switch on your phones – the first call you are getting is his. The next call when you would have reached hardly customs would be his. While you are searching for the KSRTC Bus, when you have sat in the bus, before you would have reached the designated bus stop – you would have been called thrice, have had your location tracked, route described to you twice and if he could he would have asked ISRO to book an INSAT for you. Finally, when you reach his home you would be welcome by the most adorable couple, whose banter are as frequent, hilarious, and adorable, as Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. You would find it a heart-breaking goodbye, but you definitely have to meet the last piece of the puzzle.

           Reach Bhubaneswar, book a cab drive straight to Puri Medical Square. Halt, pray to whichever God you believe in, call this guy, and ask for directions to his home (that is where the fun lies). After the jumbled road you would have followed (the only way of knowing that you are on the right path is that – you must encounter a road where taking the right turn is the ONLY option you possess at that moment), you will reach a building which seems in the midst of somewhere deep within nowhere (it’s an orange-ish building if they haven’t changed the colour by now). Climb up the flight of stairs and you will be ushered in by the sweetest of ladies and as you walk further inside the house you will find a guy in shorts and vest, almost clean shaven on the head and stubbled on the face – talking something… something esoteric. The charm is, I have no idea where the conversation will head. You might end up knowing him, you might end up knowing he knows some friend of yours, or you might end up knowing you knew him and have just blocked that memory – every possibility is a probability.

           Thus, whenever we meet next, I will chronicle you a story, my story. I met those guys whom you did in the exact same order. They couldn’t have been in any different than those were from me and each other. One believed in everything fun and happy, sadness was an extant condition, but he never rendezvoused with it. The other planned and mannered, with a swagger of his own and a bubble of calmness surrounding him. And then there was the guy who should be in a rodeo and not in school, but within him, he never could find a difference between the two. I grew up with them – from proposing a girl to finding out a new porn site, from eating a vendors’ entire stack of egg chop to carrying a cycle on the back of another cycle holding it all along the way – knowing these very times who I was to be. I need not patronise them; you have met them now you can attest but haven’t they grown up to be that too? A maverick, a husband, a seeker - they turned out, best of who they were supposed to be. It has been a lifetime with them, and it doesn’t feel a day old – the talks surely have changed the laughs have-not. In the direst of times or the merriest they all pan out the same way. With myriad plans and bountiful of ideas, plethora of insults and plentiful of advice we always tended to be who we are, the strength maybe we were so different that together we became the ‘Vitruvian’.

           And see what they have attained in life – one has the most charming and sensible of persons as his wife, the other is about to marry the most adorable and sweetest of girls, whilst one has a Mavic Mini – in essence, they all are happy. That’s where it culminates in being so bonded that a JAVA program written a decade ago with a backronym for our first names, still defines us to ourselves and the world we are a part of. Dump all that, our parents see us as brothers, end-of-story.

           We may be geographically apart, sun rising at one end and a stray dog barking at the night shadow at the other end – what actually makes these ends meet is our conviction in the belief of an abstract juxtaposed with a friendship of almost two decades.

           We are just a call apart, is just an understatement. On that note, I should really pick up that call – phone’s abuzz for long. I will be hurled abuses at, and yeah, that’s how it is.

  Exceedingly early into the day (around 11 AM), I received a call from the COVID control room. They enquired about my well-being, and after a brief overview of my health status with my permission the operator wanted to take a view of my psychological status. I duly granted my verbal consent and awaited the barrage of questions I thought I was going to face. To utter dismay of my clenched heart and tightened tongue, she asked just two simple questions – “Are you feeling anxious?” – “Has there been any change in your appetite?”

           “No” – “No”, were my prompt replies. They were answered just like a reflex, as if I were waiting to give them a negative answer. But I pondered, after I hung up the call, was the answer really a no!

           I explicitly love linguistics – and anxiety/anxious has a pretty cool origin story. It comes from an Old Greek word, ankho, which means to choke, and in many a sense it does define the same. But was I anxious, well I did not feel any choking per se, but I really did not know! I am anything but an outgoing person – I do like the weekly rides, a trimester trip, or an unplanned long drive – but I general prefer the indoors. Books, video games, YouTube, surfing the internet or, the best of all, sit and have a khatti (that is the Odia word when a group of people congregate and just talk, random). Did missing out on that made me anxious? Maybe Yes. Its not that it was something new to me. I had been in a bad post-breakup stage in a single no window room in Delhi at the heights of pollution, and for weeks I had just been indoors. And current situation is a walk on roses compared to those times. I have a big network to talk to, I am settled academically and career-wise, I have a such a well knit group of friends who are just my neighbours and colleagues and I have a far broader view of life and lifestyle with a fair amount of clarity bundled with a few trinkets of experience from past. However, being desperate in grief and diagnosis are two different arenas altogether.

           In grief one tends to rationalise with self as to the justification of maintaining sanity, here sanity is not a worry even. Every time I put my finger in the oximeter till the time the display shows the saturation my heart skips a few beats. Just today noon it showed up 88 for a second and I literally sweated out in the chilliest of rooms in our entire campus (except for Maiti Sir’s room – that room is Himalayesque). Whenever my parents give me a call, between and betwixt the time my phone rings and I say hello, my heart is literally in my mouth. I do not know to whom all have I passed my infection to. Every time I eat, I do think will it be the last thing to trigger a reaction (, and Chilli Mushroom and Roti, definitely isn’t going to be my last meal). Hence anxiety just creeps in unwanted - unknowingly, and unwarily.

           Having mentioned what my last meal surely would not be, I had never have given a thought about it though. Food comes naturally to me, quite convincingly to how it is etymologically formed. It comes from an Old Latin, appetiere, which meant to seek – and got morphed to appetitus, which means to desire. If there is one conviction that I hold true, it is that, I can never do away with food – the good, the bad, the ugly – doesn’t matter, food is food. Anxiety I could understand, but appetite, it had no chance to wean. I was WRONG!

           And don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I am not eating or not liking food anymore, the truth is I am just not looking forward to it. Earlier, going to the canteen and drinking an iced tea or eating an egg chop was something I was actively doing, what to have for lunch, where to plan dinner – was a thought provoking, brainstorming activity – and that what pleasure was. It seems somehow that has been robbed from me. I never found Modern Family “that-laughable” (All Hail, TBBT!) but in Room 311, when it played on the, silliest of capers felt exhilarating. Food in mouth was important, who else you are sharing the space with matters the more. That few moments of eating, and earlier when we used to cook too, was an escape from a life which we live ourselves. A time away from our worries, responsibilities, prejudices, remainders, and the thoughts of the hours past and the day next. It was as Penny (Kaley Cuoco) would put it, “that ice thingy that Superman flies too”. Maybe that is what I am not well prepared about.

           However bad the situation maybe I am always glad and grateful to all those who have reached out, and I can’t thank all of you enough. It feels immensely good and soothing when teachers, colleagues, friends, even acquaintances wish you well. Maybe COVID 19 did teach us to be better humans after all. It took a virus to let us empathise with our humanity, so inherent yet so much in oblivion. As much it took being fettered to four walls that made me realise the importance of the routine that comes gratis to me, and many.

I was still waiting for my results.

Not much of waiting as sleeping because an unabridged slumber is the sign that you had not lost your mind. I was not hoping to lose it anytime soon too.

They say the devil lies in the detail but in reality, if I was asked, I would say it really lies in the wait. There is nothing vehemently right or wrong about the Schrödinger’s Cat, but have you ever asked its owner about his feelings? What impact does, not knowing whether his cat is dead or alive have on Schrödinger? (I did not research if he really owned a pet cat or not but let us play to our strength – he is dead and cannot sue me and great minds love cats). Meanwhile, it was well into noon and a hearty lunch , a siesta to gap my doing-nothing-ness, I sat down to study; and by study I mean a ratio of 3:1 (3 YouTube videos per page of study).

           God works in mysterious ways, but Google is plain clandestine. The second recommended video was of a various popular scene from the Sacha Cohen starer movie The Dictator, where he to the amusement of the audience and despair of the fictional citizens, has changed many words, often antonyms to his titular name, “Aladdin”. Word pairs like Yes-No, Positive-Negative were also included, which culminates into the funniest part, where a patient is receiving his HIV status from an apron clad man, as “HIV Aladdin”. That is taking Schrödinger’s Cat and hitting out of the ground for a six (Yahh, A big Mid-Fing to sports metaphors limited to Baseball and Football, here comes Cricket! Handle It!). It was meant to be a funny scene, but I had a vast amount of empty time at hand and if I were ever to publish my “Epistolary Magnum Opus”, I really needed to make the best of it (‘cause I don’t know if Rome was built in seven days or not, P.S. I Love You for sure wasn’t).

           What if I received my result today as COVID Aladdin? Should I panic? Would I panic? Well, surely I would. The underlying question is why? Is it because of the fear of my vulnerability and mortality – maybe?! But I am near one of the best institutions of my place lest anything happens and given that I am asymptomatic there is a very thin chance of mishap. Even if I were negative, what could be the guarantee that I will not come positive tomorrow? In that case, I would just continue to be Aladdin!

I had never had ever stressed so hard on the word POSITIVE. I vaguely remember the first time I had even noticed it out of context of studies is when I had to say someone or fill in about my blood group, B Positive. It was the lamest joke we played in school, and it still is the lamest one continuing till date – playing on the homophone of ‘B’ Positive with ‘Be Positive’ and having a ludicrously childish feat of laughter post that dialogue delivery.

           It was well into evening by then, and I had hardly studied anything substantial, so I started doing what I was supposed to, with utmost focus. I received a phone call from a friend of mine in the department of CMFM who delivered me the news that I was certainly COVID Positive and not Aladdin. By that time, as I had been working in the COVID sector for quite some time, I had known that I would be turning up positive gauging the time frame that it was occupying. Well, I thanked him, a few formality calls followed from various other departments regarding various norms and protocols of quarantine, and I was officially COVID 19 Aladdin in a positive way.

A pulse oximeter is neither a luxury nor a requirement. To most it feels as if it randomly displays a value greater than 96 most of the times and I am not denying it. It Does! And, I was the last person to need it. However, it was not to be so for long. To give a certain context to it, grab hold of any of my PG colleagues who have ever gone out for shopping with me, and they will attest to the fact with a stomp of their foot that  I should never be left  in a supermarket alone or unsupervised. The first time they did that I came back to room with an assorted set of 10 Pringles that didn’t even last a week; and the last time they did that (which was by the way yesterday), I brought back along with 15 packs of Amul Masti, a pulse oximeter. Did I need it? No. Did I think I need it? Even No. Did the seller ask me if I wanted a pulse oximeter and I say a Yes? YES!

So today at noon as I was fleeting through reports of patients (well forgot to introduce myself – I am Dr. Saurav Nayak currently pursuing Post-graduation in Biochemistry at AIIMS Bhubaneswar. Hi!) my mom called me up to inform the cough my father was harbouring since last week. It had gotten worse.Thus when they tested for COVID-19, they tested positive. To be honest I accepted the diagnosis with alacrity. Both were almost asymptomatic and were well toned. At least them having been tested will keep them on the path of caution and safeguarding self. As I hung up giving the usual mediocre advice which you can when a pandemic is in full swing, I realised as to where does that leave me. I had recently visited home and was well in contact for several hours without any precaution, and to add to it I have not ever got tested. It was 1:30 PM by my clock and at 2 the collection of sample stops. So, I literally ran (and with my size, I weigh 20 stones, it just looked figuratively). Battling the usual queue and chaos I finally was successful in providing my sample and was all-a-hoping to get my results as soon as I could. In hope it would rest.

As I was deemed to be a contact at the moment, I provided my sample, I was under room isolation and the official beginning of “El Cuarentena”. To be honest at first it was all bubbly fun. No work for 14 days, no duty hours, no waking up, no getting sterile for work – I was getting ahead of myself, but at that moment it was as fun as it could be. I hadn't started taking it seriously at all, still roaming around in the corridor, chatting with people, with a mask on and at a distance, but still chatting.

It has been well documented that realisation hits hardest when you try to be aloof of it, and I just presented more surface area for the same. So, when my friends left for hanging around and I kept to my room, I just realised what I have gotten into. The smile vanished, the fun vapourized, and the veil of non-consequence just undraped itself. You see, infallibility is an inherent delusion which is too persistent. It breaks only when you are hit at your Achilles' heel. That is when I found out that I wasn’t afraid or frightened of staying alone but of missing out those 15 days which were mine. It was not just about missing out the days, honestly, COVID had already shot down all plans and parties but still it did linger. I was never an ‘isolation’ person, and the last time I was bound by four walls the results were not good. All that apart I had something coming.

I had still not been reported of my results, and in all probability that would have to wait till the next day. I had hoped the time would slow and stop. Nothing of that sort happened. Preparation for UPSC exams , enough food and a sleepy head made sure that my time flew as swiftly as it could, and there I was on a cliff-hanger on a rather secluded cliff with a dry ocean bed waiting for a thud.

And as I was about to sleep, the last thing I did for the day was to check my luck and see what random numbers came up on the display of my pulse oximeter when I put my finger in.