I guess it’s a flaw in human nature – thinking.
Standing with my left elbow placed firmly over the balcony ledge,
I stare into the distance.
The city is lit tonight,
aerial views could mistake it for exaggerated Diwali revelry.
But it’s not. It’s peak summer; the beginning of May, to be precise.
The fragrance of Shasta Daisies and Sweet Williams obscured,
by the stench of burning human flesh.
Taking a break from this world,
no longer an option
at every turn you are met
with the wails of those left behind, and of promises unkept.
My Twitter pings,
or is it the Covid-helpline, indicating an incoming call?
I am beyond care at this point – or perhaps just too full of it;
hyper-aware that it is yet another one of us in need,
a desperate plea, an anguished cry;
that is what the ping means.
I lift my elbow from the ledge and straighten my spine–
overwhelmed by myself, I take a moment to catch my breath.
It’s an incoming call,
I pick up: ‘Hello, how may I be of help to you?’
I fake an even tone.
It’s been over a month now,
so many voices heard over the phone –
some angry, some lost, while some bereaved.
But mostly in those voices
I never fail to catch
a tone of strength–
strained yes, but that note of strength,
desperately clinging on to hope
And today, it is that sliver of a strength that lets me cope.
I have a confession to make.
My attempts to heal your ache,
the words I speak
of hurried reassurance or in a tone that is bleak–
they are said less to you, and more to me.
Once this storm passes,
which I must believe it will
I will perhaps retract my words;
thinking – will no longer be a human flaw.
But for today and tomorrow
I clear my mind off of any thoughts
I push myself; to place you before me.
It is done in your name, but mostly it is just for me.
Aishwarya Shrihari has been working as a volunteer with organisations that are working towards helping COVID-19 patients procure supplies.
Featured image credit:Reuters/Danish Siddiqui