COVID

Riffat Moazam Zaman*

I wake up and glance at the clock. It is 9:00 am. My gaze moves to my bedroom window and I can see the tall potted palms that I have placed outside. My cat, Bugga, is peacefully sleeping on my desk. It is a quiet, bright morning and yet this is not like other mornings. This “quiet” is heavy and somber. The Sindh government has announced a shutdown to prevent the spread of COVID. Bugga senses movement on the bed. He jumps up and licks my forehead, indicating he wants to be fed. I walk out, he follows me and pauses when I slow my steps, and then he looks up at me with beseeching eyes. I feed him. He walks toward the kitchen door, looks up and lets out a low meow. He wants the door opened as it is time for his morning stroll in the mini garden and I accompany him. Bugga’s daily routine helps me structure my mornings. Nothing has changed for him. He is leading his life.

After an unusually long winter (for Karachiites), summer is on its way in. The perennial, flowering plants are growing new leaves in all hues of green. The ground cover has increased its pace to cover up patches of visible soil, dwarf panciana is sprouting small orange flowers, and ixoras are fuller with leaves and bunches of vibrant reddish orange blooms. A purple flowering ticoma vine is in a rush to spread itself over the bamboo trellis in my garden, and the two kiyaris are full of unassuming vincas and lantanas in yellow and white, pink and mauve. This is nature in its glory, soothing, peaceful, seductive and indifferent. This is God’s gift, which humans have tried to subdue and annihilate.

I am a clinical psychologist, and last year quit a 30 year fast track life to one where I work privately just 2 days in a week. After the lockdown I am conducting online therapy with some of my ongoing clients. Today is the first day and I am a bit nervous having to depend entirely on technology, which I do not trust. I change my shirt, which I do not iron (I iron my clothes meticulously, including my nightie), do my face and hair, don’t bother to change the pajamas I slept in, sit bare footed and Skype the first client, a young, depressed introvert dealing with feelings of abandonment. His face appears on the screen; he has not shaved for several days, and I am surprised that he greets me with a smile. He has been feeling better since the lockdown, and working through the home suits him. He does not have to drag himself to work and force himself to interact with his colleagues. The next one is a woman, who says lockdown has been a blessing for her, as she and her busy family (husband and adult children) have been given a chance to spend time together. My third client, a young, single, working woman is distressed because she had worked hard over the years and saved enough to pursue her graduate studies abroad. In our previous session she was excited that she had gotten admission in a college of her choice but now everything was on hold. My next client is an artistic undergraduate student who is wearing a tee shirt that announced her hatred for mornings. She is sprawled on a chair and states she likes the lockdown as it has given her the opportunity to brighten up her room and now she loves the space she has created for herself. My morning discomfort has curiously receded after I am done with the sessions.

I go for a walk in the evening accompanied by my daughters. It is eerie to see no traffic on the streets of Karachi. There are others doing the same, masked and unmasked, couples, singles, and families. Some stroll and others walk briskly with determined looks on their faces. I spot a jogger or two, and one man walking his handsome pedigree dog. I think of how in this neighborhood, we are people with large, comfortable homes in which we can allocate one room per member were quarantine to be required. We have enough water and soap to wash our hands as often as we like and we have sufficient food in the house and money in the bank. I think of Ursula La Guin’s short story, “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas.” Our cozy and plentiful lives are at the cost of those who will stay hungry as a consequence of the lockdown. I turn around to return home.

It is late at night and Bugga sleeps on my desk, snoring gently the way humans do when they grow old.  I look forward to rereading books that I first read many years ago, late into the night. I intend to finish “The Plague'' by Albert Camus, and begin Margaret Atwood’s “The Blind Assassin.” She is a witty, brilliant storyteller. I marvel at spinners of words, creators of magic, who can pull you into their imagined universes. Unlike the day which began with an uneasy quiet, the night offers peace of a kind that envelops me and makes me feel at home with myself and the world.

All identifying details about clients have been changed in order to protect their privacy.

* Riffat Moazam Zaman, Clinical Psychologist in Private Practice, Karachi, Pakistan, Associate Faculty, CBEC