Prisoners of Pandemic

“It is likely to make us think we are not caged. We cannot feel the bars unless we push against them”, writes Erin Morgenstern, the author of The Night Circus, her debut novel that was rated intensely imaginative for it seemed to be crafted from the fabric of a dream and the amazement of the circus.

Coming to a cage, Covid-19 or otherwise, we all are serving a life sentence. And we feel it only when we strike with bars. Bars are both visible and invisible. When we shout, we feel we are choked. When we complain, we feel we are muzzled. When we lament, we feel we are smothered.

   

Most of the times, from institutions to social circles, we are plugged and throttled. Our minds are blocked. Our pens are gagged. Our thoughts are barred no sooner we think. Our opinions are enslaved whenever we dare to speak. There are only bars and chains. Scary suffocation sinks in. The cage consumes us gradually but treacherously. We can’t move. We can’t mourn…Main Baizubaan Hoon Qaidi …A silent prisoner, we are all. There is only the poetry of the fear in our eyes. Nothing else.

Isn’t this the biggest curse? The upsetting predicament? The worst punishment? How long can any population breathe like this? Isn’t this a wicked confinement? We have been virtually dumped in the dungeon of desperation. A frightening ‘fearodemic’ prevails. Rumors and speculations devour us alongwith the epidemic disquiet around.

The question is that can circumstances cage humans like birds? Their songs stifled? Their wings clipped? Their dreams killed? Their hopes smothered? And they bottled up through deceitful ways? This happens. This is happening. And this is simply inhuman. Highly pestering. If the virus becomes a huntsman, on a lethal lookout, we all are doomed. If any entity starts acting like a hunter, then we are, of course, the vulnerable species. We have to, then, believe that we are living up in solitary wild woods and our songs can wither in the wilderness. For no one listens to captivated creatures, their dirge in darkness. The world has no time for sad stories for the world itself is asphyxiated. The people are madly bothered about their own survival. That’s why some stories die unheard. Some tales get obscured. Some accounts are hushed up. Some narratives fade out. Some scores go unsettled. Some battles finish without a sound. History passes away in silence.

There are manifold problems and pains around that we feel imprisoned with. Every hardship is like being in a prison. Whenever adversity strikes, we feel being pushed against the bars of this notorious prison. Nonetheless, we keep feeding on dreams of hope. We keep struggling for survival and salvation. We keep praying. We remember what Hazrat Muadh ibn Jabal (RA), one of the companions of Prophet (SAW), cried out when he was undergoing the pangs and agonies of death: “O Allah! Bear witness that I love You, so do with me whatsoever You wish!”

So, the pangs of prison and pandemic are harsh, and let’s endure them gracefully. Whatever affects one directly, affects everyone indirectly. We cannot disassociate ourselves with the events around for we do not live in isolated and insulated chambers. We are held up in a set of connections where each and every one of us—incarcerated and infected—gets bruised, hurt and grieved. Whether we like it or not, all of us, the prisoners, are tied up with a sole thread of destiny. Whatever that may be.

As of now, it seems that the collective spirit and endurance has not been incarcerated or infected yet. But even this can be ephemeral. People are known for unpredictability and fickleness at the same time. We violate and we slip up. We play with the virility. The road to consequences remains remorseful. In this prison of the pandemic, some have ‘pigeonholed’ themselves in various identities. Dubious and questionable. The reason for creepy stories buried in this prison. And some are vain to the core, their sinister minds untrammeled by dread in the environment. That’s why there is general volatility around. There is certain fatal edginess in the air…Faiz felt the same twinge and scribbled—

Chaman Mein Gaarat-e-Gulchii Se Janay Kya Guzree

Kafus Se Aaj Saba Bekraar Guzree Hai…

The morn breeze is getting bizarre and restive. Here in the imprisonment, facing the dusk and the cannon of time, we are cultivating not hopes but barrenness of minds. Close to the bars of broken shadows and boundless desolation, we are rattled in. It’s not just the virus that has mutated —it’s how we’re dying voiceless.

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