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wanderingthedesertalone · 1 year ago

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Corona Alone a Diary Revisited: An American’s Experience of the Covid Lockdown in Mumbai

Lockdown In Retrospect

Mediocre Graces: In any case, by the end of the Pandemic, I had somewhat been restored to good graces, not that I was ever greeted in Anand Nagar(8) at least with the Atithi Devo Bhava(11) spirit, I got on the good side of the local gang and befriended a Muslim woman who sells fish in a roadside stall, but it was too late, lonesomeness and faithlessness in humanity had grabbed a hold of me. Sadly, I am no longer able to speak to the fish merchant. She married, her husband is conservative and doesn’t allow her to speak to men.

On Lonesomeness: It’s worth noting that many endured the Corona epidemic in complete isolation. According to The Wall Street Journal, 35.7 million Americans, including myself, lived alone (Byron) around the time of writing the first journal entry. However, not just did I live alone, I was an expat, I lived alone in Mumbai, India. Regardless of the negative stigma that goes along with living alone, solitude never bothered me, in fact, ever since I was divorced, in 2012, I’ve preferred to be alone. Besides, I could always grab a cup of coffee and talk to strangers, I have the gift of gab when needed, but the double-whammy of isolation and becoming a pariah had pushed me to the brink of insanity. I’ve come to believe that those things that don’t kill us make us weaker and since the Covid outbreak I’ve become impatient, nervous and have lost faith in humanity, as I’ve already said.

Too Much Fluff: In all, the NPR article is woefully misguided and simply tried to make a buck off of Covid lockdowns, like so many other news outlets were doing at the time. A better story would’ve been on those who live alone before the Pandemic, whether for reason of mental health, a willful solitude or social ineptitude, that chronicled each persons’ descent into madness; I despise fluff journalism, maybe because it reminds me of the way that Bollywood paints India as an endless serene landscape of humorous follies in love that can easily be overcome when it’s something else all together, not easily, or that I would like to, put into words. This isn’t just fluff, there’s comedy for sure, there’s humor in all tragedy but there’s a reason for sharing the gritty details of lockdown in India, I feel it’s important to share these stories lest we live them again! In the past year, I’ve filled 6 volumes with recollections of lockdown, I hoped to get them published by a newspaper, that failed.

Diary Excerpts and Commentary

A Note to the Reader: The following excerpts are from the journal of an expat living in Mumbai (recorded between Feb 2019 and Feb 2021), during Covid lockdown(1). Dates have been replaced with titles because, unless indicated in commentary or prose, they’re irrelevant:

It Begins: There’s a few cases of Covid in China and other places but I’m not too worried, this will have as much effect on me as the 2003 SARS outbreak(6), there’ve been many such scares in my lifetime. Besides, I caught the virus from a wedding party in Sri Lanka, it was like the Flu, high fever, mild delirium and a little trouble breathing. Interesting thing about Sri Lanka, all of the land and wealth seems to be in the hands’ of the Nords, the locals have very little and the price of food is like that of America or Europe. Also, airport authorities took a child’s Queen Conch shell away right before boarding, she was clearly enamored by her seemingly magical wave machine. After they took it from her, she cried all the way back to Mumbai.

The Flasher: A few Covid cases have been confirmed and I’m beginning to feel like an unwelcome guest in a foreign land, an unusual notion in a land where the locals say “Atithi Devo Bhava(11).” Typically, Indians are hospitable, on my travels to the South they were, of course, taxi drivers tried to scam me there, but cabbies the world over are a special breed of scum, you should’ve seen the way they took me to the wringer in Hong Kong, hospitality is a source of national pride here. This afternoon, there was a knock on the door, it was my landlord. I found myself baffled by what he said. I opened the door and he began to speak, timidly and slowly in broken English: “there’s been a complaint,” he said. “What’s wrong?” “A man is walking around outside naked.” “Oh, I see. Thanks for informing me,” I said and shut the door, believing that he was telling me of a dangerous predator lurking among this slum’s numerous tightly knit alleys at night. Later, I came to find that the landlord was attempting to tell me that the neighbors had accused me of going on moonlit strolls in the buff, I was the predator. I was shocked and enraged when I found that I was, according to gossip, a flasher, but consoled myself by telling myself that none of this is the landlord’s fault, he just wants to prevent other tenants from rioting. People are scared and looking to point a finger at an invisible assailant. This will be forgotten quickly and my name restored, I guess it’s not contradictory to be both hospitable and two-faced. Why do I care about my reputation in a slum? I don’t want any trouble.

Last Days of Freedom: Worry has set in, even chain restaurants no longer accept cash, not from me at least, I tried to buy something to eat with good ol’ paper money at McDonald’s and they refused to serve me. Worse luck, as the Chinese say. I’m working on a project here and I’m paid in cash, so credit isn’t something I have access to. This doesn’t just affect me, a large portion of the population is paid, untaxed of course, in cash and most likely doesn’t have a bank account. Also, everywhere I go my temperature is taken.

Days of Optimism: Lockdown began, I went to get groceries for the 2 days that we are told we must shelter in place and plan to go to bed early. There was hoarding and ransacking of shelves at the local grocer, but I’m sure that it’s just hysteria and this whole thing will end soon. Another interesting thing happened at the store today, two women got in a fight over the last box of cookies, the first woman, a pudgy mother with a bad attitude towards everyone that I had had the bad luck of having a few encounters with before, used to admonish me saying “smoking is a bad addiction,” I wagged my finger and said “sugar is a bad addiction,” laughing my way out of the store. It was the first time I’ve laughed in days, I’ve been in a daze, everything is quickly changing and feels so dire. The fowl woman, she lost the battle and the box of cookies. A word about change, I’m often told that nothing changes in this little hamlet and I believe it. It’s hyperbole, things change here, but slowly, there’s digital gadgets for sale, but there are also oxcarts that sell food and other remnants of the past. It’s not that nothing changes, It’s that time seems to go by slower here, like the locals heartbeat at a slower pace. I always feel rushed but they take as much time as the seasons.

Two Days In: The two days passed, but lockdown continues, the food I bought didn’t last. Even worse, I wasn’t informed that lockdown part 2 had begun without the first installment ending, I slept through the grocery shopping time, 6AM. I snuck out for an evening walk despite lockdown, 2 interesting things happened on my covert walk, I saw many others outside as well, they all spoke of the cow that wandered into the open air temple that’s adjacent to my apartment complex, some are feeding here, even the Muslims, having taken up many of the folk traditions of the Hindus they live among, agree that a sickly heifer wandering into the temple is a good omen, the other interesting thing, The Green Eyed Lady (an Indian with green eyes) made me some Khichdi(24). There were also Chinese in Haiden, Beijing, a district home to many Russians, who have green eyes. Isn’t genetic splendid? In any case, the woman asked me if I had eaten, usually more of a salutation than invitation here, I said “no,” so she brought me a bite to eat. The food supposedly heals the sick.

Big Changes in a Little Town: Since implementation of the Janata(5) Curfew, many continue to sit along alleys in large groups or participate in sports, not wearing masks(4). Yet, as I walk enroute to purchase groceries, these intrepid individuals say “here comes Corona” and cover their faces with their dupatta(7) or a handkerchief. This change of attitude towards me is, although slight, I’ve always had my fans and detractors here, is palpable. Maybe it’s just my nerves. Before lockdown, I sometimes played Teen Patti(19) with neighbors at least, never understood the rules though. Anyway, the shelter-in-place decree will be lifted on Passover, this must be a good omen, not that I sincerely believe in such things, I think to myself and reiterate my resolution to weather the storm in Mumbai. One concern about the transmission of Covid, Indians don’t have a sense of proximity, they always crowd.

One Good Deed: The endless bad news has left me exhausted. A few thoughts before bed, having lived in other parts of Asia and meeting many people from Europe, India is like America in one way, heterogeneity. It’s a type of melting pot, not a melting pot of strangers from far off lands but a mixture of old kingdoms, who have their own languages and cultures, forced under one, possibly too small, umbrella. Adding it up, Indian society, due to its long history, caste system and numerous religions is exceedingly complex, for example Muslims created the first free public institutes of higher learning, yet in some regards they’re treated like would-be separatists (Khurshid). Thinking about the day’s event, I sit on the small broken cot that’s my bed, I have to get this fixed soon, it’s interesting, the cost of handwork is very cheap here, in the US, anything that artisan might do is expensive and it’s more cost effective just to throw the old away. I’m reminded of this Chinese woman I met in Beijing, she told me “I’m not Han(23).” “Interesting, which ethnic group do you belong to?” “I’m Miao.” “Is there anything unique about the Miao?” “We don’t eat dogs. All Chinese people are the same, we are one people, the only difference between Han and Miao is that we don’t eat dogs.” I was teaching adult English at the time for extra income. India is more like America than China or Europe, diversity is endless.

Anand Nagar Has a New Song: The decree wasn’t lifted. Another day, thousands more Covid cases and locals have begun to shout “go home Corona!” Despite the taunts, I’m staying where I am. I don’t have much of a choice, there aren’t any flights anyway, the airports, in a panic, have shut down, everything, with a mere 2 day warning, has come to a grinding halt. I guess this isn’t merely more sensational media. Besides, the situation is becoming bleaker in the US and airports are havens for communicable diseases, they pack people in, from all over the world, like sardines. Have you ever seen the projected distribution of an epidemic? It all starts with airports. Resolute that this virus will blow over, I buckle down for the Summer of Corona in India.

Foreigners Have it Too: Nothing good has come from lockdowns so far, it has fostered hysteria, mob mentality, greed and anti-foreigner sentiment. This “City of Dreams,” has become a nightmare! The nation has fallen into the clutches of fear of contracting the virus from a foreign national. Hysteria, I tell you! I only hope that this all ends soon. Despite an anti-foreigner hysteria, according to The World Health Organization there are a total of 1637 people infected by Covid-19, a mere 49 of which are aliens(3) (The WHO). Yet, the locals blame it all on Tablighi Jamaat(13)(BBC), why not? Trump is calling this outbreak “The China Virus.” The borders have closed, looks like I’m staying here for a while, I didn’t plan on leaving anyway. Besides, there’s talk of easing restrictions. Back to the human condition, I had always been considered an outsider here, I had always been greeted with mocking and mistrust, to some degree, but there were those who accepted me. The first day I arrived the children called me names and adults mimicked the way I speak with derisive tones and gestures, I guess imitation is the highest form of flattery? I despise epigrams, I really do.

Nostalgia for Slightly Better Days: Before lockdown, there was a woman with a fish tattoo on her arm who often invited me to play cards but I shied away from her after neighbors had told me that she “accuses people of rape to blackmail them for money.” I don’t usually listen to gossip but wanted to play it safe. Other than that, I was at least invited to weddings, funerals and dances during the Graba(22) celebration. Funny story, the first year I refused to dance, a man jokingly told me that if I dance with a girl I have to marry her. I didn’t actually believe him, I’m not that gullible, I’m just not fond of Indian music. Back to the present, it’s not the time for nostalgia, although I can’t think of a better pastime right now, maybe if foreigners in India practice social distancing, unlike the locals, they won’t catch the virus and the stigma will dissolve. The other night I went for a walk just to break the monotony of watching time go by and hoping the world would heal. This morning, I was again accused of perverse behaviors by my landlord. I wasn't walking the alleyways naked, but I am being watched. On the walk, locals barred the alley and told me “no foreigners allowed.” Yet, they daily gather to play Cricket while sentinels watch for cops so that they can quickly disperse.

There’ Gestapos In This Movie Too: I guess I should mention something good too. Lockdown has caused a sort of hush here and now daily I can hear the sound of an infant being bathed through the one tiny window my studio apartment has. Through the 4 foot square aperture I can hear the infant laughing as warm water rushes over it. I now hope that things will return to the way they were before, just subpar not “holy crap the world is on fire and we are all going to die!” A combination of police and concerned citizens, working with the police, now stand along the main road with bamboo canes in hand. They remind me of stories my grandfather told of the Gestapo. Both are poised for violence. The police, they resound the sentiment of the concerned citizens, ridicule the foreigner. Now, I usually get an escort, something that is only afforded to me, to stop “roaming” as I go to get essentials. There are now dots painted on the sidewalk, we are supposed to stand on them to ensure social distancing, the locals don’t obey this. If I do the same, I’m informed, thwack would go the cane. I’ve begun to see in black and white, not metaphorically but literally, I feel as though I’m watching a movie about a distant authoritarian time. The brutalist architecture(24) is reminiscent of Russia and North Korea, it doesn’t take much imagination for the arabesque attributes to obscure. I haven’t slept much.

Building a Wall: This hamlet is bluffed by a river by a river on one side with a small foot bridge for crossing into Neilam Nagar. The police have blockaded the entrance to the crossing and are building a wall to, I believe, keep the several hundred thousand impoverished residence of this hamlet trapped like mice on a sinking ship. I truly fear the wall, perhaps it’s because of my education, having been forced to read the line ‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall(20),’ throughout school, it’s almost a national anthem. Walls and golf courses have always seemed as despicable things to me. Neither the rich nor the influential politicians are suffering the same as we are in the slums. They play golf in their gated communities…

The First Stone Tossed: As the situation in India worsens, so do the jeering. Now, a few individuals throw rocks at me, a tactic usually reserved for thwarting the region’s menacing wild dogs, as I venture into the ever more dangerous streets at the permitted time, 6AM, to get essentials, in an attempt to diffuse their frustrations over the region’s spreading epidemic. Yet, returning to the political quagmire that is America keeps me hopeful that sheltering in Mumbai will become easier. Rocks tossed or not, I’m staying in place. Oddly, despite not eating much, I’m gaining weight, it must be stress. Supplies have run thin, some are hoarding and there’s talk of a 2 week prohibition on supply trucks entering Anand Nagar.

Insomnia: Depression has set in and money has mostly ran out. Immediately before lockdown, I was given a promotion but as of yesterday, the company I worked for has permanently shut their doors. I’ve just now realized that I haven’t left my house, let alone gotten out of the broken cot for days. I look at the clock, it’s 5:50 AM, the allotted time for shopping. Getting groceries at dawn isn’t a matter of waking at dawn; I haven’t slept in days either, just sat on this cot watching time go by. Insomnia is starting to take a toll, I’m beginning to hallucinate, time has lost all meaning, at times days go by in minutes yet other times, minutes last for a small eternity. It has been days since I’ve had a face to face conversation with another human.

Home Invaders: Somewhat dazed, I sit on my bed contemplating the meaninglessness of time when there’s nothing to do. Jolted from my daydream-like state, there’s a pounding sound on the door. The sound is getting louder. I hear shouting. The words come into focus, “foreigner, we’re coming in! We’re breaking the door down,” says the unfamiliar voices. I spring to my feet and bolt the door. The pounding becomes more and more rapid and fear takes a hold of me. But then I hear a familiar voice, the voice of my neighbor, she shouts something in Marathi and the marauders leave. I fall into a sleep and don’t wake for 2 days. Food was cut off for 2 weeks, I had to get a bite to eat from the Hanuman Mandir(18). They handed out plates of rice and lentils.

Vigilantes: Days go by and panic worsens among residents of this Mumbai chawl(8). Due to rising fears, vigilantes begin to safeguard the streets from “roaming.” These sentinels attempt to impose restrictions of their own device on me: they inform me that I am not permitted to walk along certain roads because they are afraid that I carry the virus, this happened once before on a late night walk but now it’s the norm, although I’m merely in search of a store to buy necessities and wearing a mask. In the end, these vigilantes won’t cause a reduction in hanging out on the street, this I know, but a few of this slum’s inhabitants get to feel empowered because they are the new sheriff in town. I guess we all need a whipping-post and there’s good among the wicked, a local temple and a few individuals are handing out grains to the needy. We are all needy here. At this point, the lockdown has gone on for months.

The New sheriffs in Town: Currently, there’s two police along Mumbai’s backstreets, those who were given authority by the Mumbai Municipal Corporation (MNC) and vigilantes. Feeling harassed and completely rejected by society, loneliness takes hold of me, I begin to search for a way out of this “city of dreams,” maybe returning home while a buffoonish leader (Trump) who makes a mockery of the US isn’t so bad, I think to myself. All things considered, it’s nearly impossible to abide by laws set by both the government and a hysteric mob anyway.

No Payment Until April: At least I have a roof over my head, I think to myself, an article in Aljazeera, Foreign Tourists Face Hostility in India Amid Coronavirus Panic informs that an Israeli woman was evicted from her home in Goa due to locals fear of contracting COVID-19 and others were forced out of their hotel (Purohit), I can go a day without milk, but not without a bed, not to mention, the police had recently found tourists living in a cave because they are trapped in India and have ran out of money (NBC). I haven’t yet been evicted, but am also out of funds and live under constant threat of eviction. Rent payment is suspended until April (Delhi High Court). I lay on my broken cot, I will try to get it fixed on the black market, and continue to doom-scroll taking note of the day’s death tally and searching for any sign of things getting better. Passover has passed but Covid hasn’t.

Nobody Goes Home for That Price: I do some research and come to find that the US Department of State is offering “repatriation flights,” these flights carry a $2000 price tag (a promissory note for the aforementioned amount must be signed before boarding the plane) and a random port of arrival is where I’ll end up if I choose to return home through the ever so benevolent government, how can anyone pay this price during a Pandemic (this thing has been upgraded to a Pandemic, how lovely words are). Upon arriving at this port, the returning expat must find their way home through barricades and the threat of being infected by Corona (Genter). I harden my heart and again resolve to weather the storm in Mumbai. Besides, if the promissory note isn’t paid, I will be banned from international travel. I’m a Digital Nomad. I travel, work at an incredibly low rate and can only afford to survive in developing countries.

August’s Heat: The death toll jets upward and 75 degree angle, it’s updated daily. While bombarded with an endless stream of bad news, jeering has morphed into threats of violence, sleep is still a rare occurrence, heat rash has caused the parts of my body covered by clothing to become as freckled as Little Orphan Annie, I’m as poor to boot, my field of vision is filled sprawling geometric patterns and my temper is quick.

Worse Than the Daughters of Temperance: As the situation thickens, stores begin to deny me service. A shopkeeper refuses to sell me certain items that are in stock and we aren’t barred from sale, I have just been informed that liquor and tobacco have become contraband. The more than nagging need to satiate addictions during lockdown aside, this proprietor allows Indian nationals to purchase products, but denies me the same goods. He’d have me starve to death! I, like all outsiders, have become the face of a faceless virus that has ruined lives, in fact “Muslims were initially blamed for the spread of infection (Siddiqui),” a group that is no less a part of India than Sikhs(10), yet, like Jews anywhere in the world, are perpetual outsiders. All things considered, this is mass hysteria! Nobody I know has died from Covid yet. A sampling error? Perhaps. Nonetheless, I sit in my room without a breeze (I don’t have A/C) and ponder what society has come to, Freud’s mob mentality.

They’re Trying to Starve Me Out: That shopkeeper has changed his mind, I returned to him to buy groceries but he yelled “go away foreigner white face.” He then insisted that a clerk not give me an old box, although I was carrying a heavy load and had no tote. The hypocrisy of people here is an in the face classism, a rule for me and a rule for them. The Covid cases are increasing exponentially! So are my headaches. They’re not headaches as much as a feeling that every nerve ending in my body is being prodded with a needle and the inside of my brain shrinking. Now, I sit at home alone, the rats scurry across the floor, the heat comes in waves, time stands still and there’s nothing to laugh about, Covid cases are in the hundred thousands and the death toll is staggering as well.

Befriending the Gang: August’s heat, insomnia, constant dread and lack of nutrition are getting to me, I don’t know how much longer I can go on. Even local pharmacists have begun to convey a fear of me and insist that I have a cough when I go in to ask for something for heat rash. Unlike the grocers, the pharmacists sell me goods, but with great hesitation and suspicion in regards to my presence in this chawl. Finding tobacco is now the chief task of every day. It’s sold on the black market, along with chocolate, alcohol and meat, at exorbitant prices. So, like a heroin addict, I slink up to a back alley leant-to and buy a pack of smokes. It’s just like buying illicit drugs: there’s an obligatory period of making small-talk, ambiguity over whether or not the man actually has tobacco, razzing, phone calls and scurrying about to find it. In the end, I walk away with cigarettes at European prices and a dirty feeling.

Suicide Among Death: Lockdown continues and most in this chawl have lost morale. The neighbor sent her son over to tinker on my electric piano. She told me of what has been dubbed The Flower House Girl. A young woman hung herself from rafters due to endless confinement to her home and the bleak picture of tomorrow that the daily news paints. What a shame! I had wondered what the fire department was doing on the main street. They took her out of the third story window with the truck’s ladder.

Another Year Another Onion: Did I mention it’s a New Year? I didn’t even notice that the year had changed, the date passed unceremoniously and with festivities. Again, the police have rebuilt the wall that surrounds this chawl, tightening the perimeter, I’m not sure if it’s to keep Covid out or us in. In any case, food has scarcely made it through the makeshift wall and news is that food supplies will be cut off for 2 weeks, again. In any case, that which makes it in is mostly sequestered by the gangs, anyhow. It’s that I’ve got the most onions mentality(12). Despite rarely eating, I continue to gain weight. Speaking of onions, there are now over nine million confirmed Covid cases and farmers are protesting the price gouging of seeds, stating that “We are the ones who have provided food, milk, vegetables when the whole country was in lockdown, we were still toiling in the fields. It is the government” not gathering in New Delhi “that has put us at risk by introducing these laws during Covid (Hollingsworth et al).” My heart is with these brave men and women and if I had the strength I would be beside them. All things considered, despite the news and friends’ proclamations that a new year brings new hope, this may be an onion of a year too.

The Walls Close In: Yet again, the police have reduced the circumference of the wall. I feel claustrophobic or like I’m slowly, very slowly drowning. I go to bed, but sleep doesn’t come. I hear the rats fight over the last morsels of food in this chawl, when I wake, there’s inevitably a rodent corpse on the footpath in the ally that leads to my house. Food has been cut off for 2 weeks. I gave the last of my supplies to a family, in total it amounted to a pound of rice and a pound of lentils. Now, the cot is less of a fishing net with big holes and more of an empty frame. I lay on the floor instead, will I be able to get somebody to fix it, I don’t know. I have to get my family to send money first.

An Altercation: We are now allowed an evening walk, so I venture out to the usual chants, a ragtag team of would-be thugs follow me. A wave of exhaustion washes over me and my pace slows to a crawl in front of the BJP(14) Office. As I cross in front of the office, beneath the flag, a scrawny slum-bastard walk up and says “are you British?” “I’m American,” I reply. “I hear they call you Hari(15).” I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he speaks. “What of it?” “More like Harry Potter.” “I guess that’s funny,” I say and try to walk away, but he grabs me by the collar and takes a swing, he misses. I return the blow, my fist makes contact with his face. My heart is racing. I fear an all out retaliation when, like roaches from beneath rot-wood, members of the local gang emerge from the alleys and come to my aid. I had been buying tobacco from them, at highway robbery prices for weeks, and so it’s in their interest to act as my vigilante guardians, in some regards, the gangs are better than the police, or at least their corruption and self service is laid out on the table for all to see, where the cops are supposed to protect and serve, protecting and serving often isn’t the case here, it comes down to ethnic and caste schisms.

Two Deaths and a Ghost: It’s another day and the death toll has spiked again. Feeling that I escaped death and death being the only thing the news reports on I begin to wonder, had I been killed by a mob, would my death have been reported as a Covid death? Is the death toll real? There’s a little hospital in this chawl, it’s certainly not inundated with the dying and morticians don’t walk the streets singing “bring out your dead,” as they did during the Black Plague of 1665. In fact, of the 3 who purportedly died in Anand Nagar, one was an elderly with Emphysema, the other was a suicide and the last one, I saw him walking down the street the other day, risen from the grave as by some Covid era miracle. Truth be told, he had gone back to his family home and returned. Not an easy task, much like during the Holocaust, traveling papers are required to go anywhere, there’s not even any trains, minus a few for displaced workers. A combination of lack of food, a growing mistrust of the government’s intention with regards to lockdown and dire times brings these lyrics to mind: My wife fixed up a tater stew/ We poured the kids full of it/ Mighty thin stew, though/ You could read a magazine right through it. Always have figured/ That if it’d been just a little bit thinner, Some of these here politicians/ Coulda seen through it(21).

Are the politicians duped or am I? What about herd immunity? I feel like I’m living in the Dust Bowl, except there’s no storm of dust and the sky isn’t black. The enemy is invisible. Or, am I the enemy? So much for relativism.

Police and Indians: On another outing, again attempting to purchase essentials, those things that whether for sustenance or pleasure, an invisible hand has decided that I may indulge in, I find that even local authorities seem misinformed about the number of foreign nationals in India with Covid. Recently, police stopped me for questioning and informed me that “foreigners are the cause of Corona Virus.” After looking for a quarantine stamp on my hands several times and not finding one they insisted that I run back home and followed me on motorcycles. This was witnessed by several locals who cheered the police on. As the police resounded sentiments of this chawl’s inhabitants, it reinforced negative feelings. I didn’t eat that night. The days following the police harassment, locals continued jeering me by saying “the police will come and hit you,” while mimicking the thwack of a cane on their posterior. Not just are they misinformed, they’d like to see me hung.

Read the Sign: In case you feel incredulous in regards to my claims about placing a stamp on the hands of foreigners and the police’s blindingly Orwellian allegiance to the BJP, the party who blamed Covid on Muslims and foreigners, The National Library of Medicine has this to say about it: tourists who arrived in India from affected countries were put in quarantine for 14 days in their port of arrival, their “left hand was stamped with ink” to maintain the date and time of their home quarantine, “a move that could risk assault, due to stigma towards Covid suspects [foreigners].” Individuals violating the quarantine can be penalized via Indian penal code Section 188, 269 and 270 (Siddiqui). The police, like the locals, are looking for a whipping-post and have a draconian view about foreign nationals in India during this crisis, what a hoot it would be to cane them. Bollywood is no “City of Dreams,” in fact, misinformation abounds here, signs, obviously posted by Conservative and nationalistic Hindu Vegans, reads as so: ‘Ways to avoid Covid/ Don’t eat meat/ Don’t smoke/ Don’t talk to foreigners.’ I no longer see the good that I jotted down in an earlier journal entry. Also, tired of the word “misinformation,” not sure who gets to decide what’s misinformation, although I myself used it in this entry, just tired: days crawl by and the feeling of isolation causes a pressure on my cranium and a meaninglessness to all things.

Mending a Bed: Despite having become a pariah, I was able to get the cot fixed, for a small fee, a tailor was willing to come over, and work against the law, they despise me, but like money enough to look past it. The work doesn’t look great, it’s rigged. Most everything here is rigged. I’m never sure if this is the ingenuity of a race of impoverished people or the result of an attitude that declares good enough is good. In the end, most everything is a hodgepodge of corrugated steel, broken bits of wood and rope with exposed electrical wires that run through water and the elements in general. I’ve always said, if the manpower here became a collected force and decided to stop pollution, get the rivers clean, enforce something like an ADA, demand fair housing they would be an unstoppable force. Instead, they divide themselves along ethnic schisms.

A Pickpocket: Food has returned to the stores and shopkeepers are serving me, but I was pickpocketed at the register. I took my wallet out to pay, right before my eyes a man reached in my wallet and took a 500 out, it was the last of the money I had. I came home empty handed. For the first time since my divorce, I broke down and cried. Now I sit wiping my eyes. Is all hope for humanity lost? I cannot answer. Besides Covid, there’s so much political turmoil! It looks as though there won’t be a smooth transition of power this time.

What I’ve Learned From the Steppenwolf: I’m concerned for the nation’s migrant workers, other visiting foreign nationals and those who descend from Mizoram and Assam, these individuals may be more prone to the psychological effects of loneliness than myself. Culturally, Indian life centers around an extended family, whereas I’m more akin to Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf. All in all, it’s tough to live overseas in the best case scenario and down-right depressing when you’ve become public enemy number one. But, as I said, I have a tough enough skin to survive this, but there are those who’ve been cannibalized by their own society. Anyway, lockdown should end in 3 weeks, the infection rate is on the decline. We are now aloud out in the evenings and I have taken to sitting with friends in front of the Rukhmini(16) Temple. It’s like the opening line of a joke, a Jew, a Muslim and a Hindu… Among us, there’s a Muslim, a Jew, a Christian and a Hindu priest. All in all, I need them not, but it’s nice to have some companionship, even if there’s little communication. I have returned to good graces.

Family Matters: Although I feel alone, I’m not jealous of India’s family structure. Locals often ask me about my family, casual things like “how is your mother?” “I don’t know. I don’t keep in touch with my family very much,” I respond. It’s a matter of privacy and staying out of gossip. Here, grown men never grow up, they are fed and coddled by their mothers. I had recently met a man who can’t cook for himself, nor wash his own clothes and still occasionally sleeps in bed with his mother. Speaking of men, spouse abuse, along with drinking, is on the rise. It’s not uncommon to see and hear it. Too often, after dark, I witness, when I sneak out for a walk to break the munatiny, men hitting women by the open air temple that my house is adjacent to. Speaking of temples, Hanukkah recently passed. I lit a makeshift menorah, but even that gave me little joy. As for now, the best thing is drinking chai by the little Rukmini temple.

Down With the Wall: The wall has come down! Lockdown isn’t over, but the wall has come down. Alas, air travel has returned, the government has announced “air bubbles” and I’m returning to America. After everything, I was never again treated as more than a second-class citizen in that chawl but it matters not, I’m leaving! In the end, the locals’ reaction to me and the psychological impact of the loneliness, their words and actions heave upon me, have caused deep scars. On a more disappointing note, all local newspapers have declined to publish my recollections of lockdown. An earnest question, were we fed false dichotomies, ones that stated wear a mask or everyone dies and get the vaccine or everyone dies, just for some political experiment or agenda? It’s just odd that after the farmers protested the Covid number began to decrease.

Integrity Intact

No Amnesty for the Wicked: One might say, you’ve survived the worst, why bring this up at all? Isn’t it time for amnesty? I feel the answers to this was best put into words in the video Pandemic Amnesty: Do you Forgive and Forget and so I will summarize what the author said, “there were things that happened that there needs to be a recognition of, and there needs to be a public apology. There needs to be a promise that this never happens again. There needs to be people who actually pay for their behavior, potentially criminal behavior. […] Until the people who did harm admit that they did harm this kind of thing will just keep repeating itself. […] Some people were victims, other people were perpetrators, and then there [were] also enablers (Wand).” For instance, The Deccan Herald reports that there have been “attacks on people from India’s northeastern region […], suspecting them of being carriers of the virus.” Assaulting your own people is like cannibalism, that’s all there is to it! As it was written in the newspaper, apart from being called “Corona” or “Chinki(9)” India’s [Asiatic] people were spat on and forcibly quarantined, despite showing no Covid symptoms, all because of their looks and an ignorant fear that anyone who looks different are the root cause of the Pandemic. Also, they were denied entry into their apartment complexes, evicted, merely threatened with eviction or forced out of restaurants to make others comfortable and none wanted to share transport with them (Karmakar). Of all things, it’s not time for amnesty.

Ignorance isn’t an Excuse: There needs to be punishment for these wicked deeds! There’ll be no retribution for foreigners who suffered in India, but locals, those from minority communities, who had just days before lockdown been upstanding citizens, deserve retribution and possibly reparations. There those who died from the virus and those who died at the selfishness and ignorance of mankind, for those who died by the hand of man have this to say: “To forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time ( Elie Wiesel).” Ignorance, for good reason, has never been, nor shall it be an excuse for breaking laws and committing atrocities. The Atlantic is wrong in their assertion that we should just forgive and forget (Oster). Perhaps, in the name of healing, it’s time to forgive, but should never forget!

A Clear Conscience: During The Covid Outbreak, I may have lost my mind, found myself in complete isolation and on the brink of starvation at times, but at least I kept my dignity. I threw no stones and attempted to obey the laws, even those that actively brought hardship into my life. I defended myself when needed, I live by the adage “walk gently and carry a big stick.” As for the war of the ethnicities in India, I guess it’s none of my business, alone, I can’t defend the minorities. And in regards to retribution for the wicked, my hands are also tied. However, I won’t give amnesty, not in my heart. Forgetting and moving on, as Oster’s article suggests (Oster) is, to reiterate, akin to allowing the cycle to repeat again. In the end, my travels have provided me with armor to protect against cabin fever, I’ve endured hardships and loneliness in remote villages of Nepal and have been “the stranger” in the metropolitans of Hong Kong, Bangladesh… But there are those among the Indians whose identity and self-worth come from a tightly knit family and friend structure, many of which took their own lives due to isolation. Others starved to death because of lack of income and others died due to the rejection of medical services. Luckily, I was not immune to the effects of isolation, but well insulated from the threat of Corona by a chawl that exists off the radar and societies’ fear of foreigners, local inhabitants keep me at arm’s length and so, I didn’t catch the virus during lockdown.

Notes

1: The views herein are not the of WTDA but the author. At WTDA we publish a variety of news, depending on what we deem to be an interesting story at the moment.

2: At the time of writing, Covid hadn’t yet been declared a Pandemic.

3: Citation no longer available at The World Health Organization.

4: The author of this journal wants it to be known that they don’t, nor did they ever, believe that masks are/were an effective way of preventing Covid-19 but were forced to wear a face covering by Indian law. At the time, they obeyed the law.

5: Public.

6: Hyped media, having no real effect on the life of the author.

7: A long scarf worn by Indian women.

8: The Marathi word for neighbourhood which is colloquially used to denote a slum.

9: North Indian slang for India’s Asiatic population.

10: A religion that combines attributes of Islam and Hinduism and originated in India.

11: Guests are G-D.

12: In 2019, due to flooding, there was an onion shortage. An entrepreneur had been hoarding onions. At the time, not only did he declare that “onions are the new gold” he purportedly sold the onions for 3 times the market value. To the author, it serves as a symbol of the selfish psychological state that caused some of the worst aspects of Covid lockdown.

13: A 3 day Islamic spiritual event in India’s capital hosted by a 100 years Islamic Missionary Movement. Due to the cases reaching over 300 after the event, the meme was coined: China is the “producers” of the virus, and Muslims are the “distributors.”

14: A political party, of which Prime Minister Narendra Modi is the leader of. Every neighborhood has a BJP office.

15: A common male name in India and regional pronunciation of the Anglo name Harry.

16: The primary wife of the Hindu G-D Krishna.

17: The name of the slum in which the writer lived during lockdown.

18: A temple in the slum in which the foreigner lived during lockdown. The temple is dedicated to the monkey G-D, a deity who helped Rama in the Hindu epic, the Ramayana.

19: A poker-like card game in which the players make melds with three cards.

20: Mending Wall by Robert Frost.

21: Talkin’ Dust Bowl Blues by Woodie Guthrie.

22: A dance form native to the west Indian state of Gujarat, performed in October to honour the Hindu Goddess Durga. It is also celebrated in Maharashtra. People gather on the streets, dancing in pairs of men and women where they rhythmically click sticks together.

23: The largest ethnic group in mainland China, about 91% of the population.

24: A South Indian dish made of rice and lentils. It’s a comfort food that’s supposed to aid in healing.

25: Brutalist architecture emerged during the 1950s in the United Kingdom, among the reconstruction projects of the post-war era.These buildings characterised by minimalism and bare building materials. They are commonly seen today in old Soviet Union countries and Central Asia, reminding many of totalitarianism.