surprisingly good dal tadka. And as I navigated the unfamiliar territory of caregiver, I realized that sometimes, escaping depression wasn’t about running away, but about finding connection, even in the most unexpected places. The road ahead was uncertain, but for once, I didn’t feel quite so alone.
The insistent chirping of my phone dragged me from sleep at 6:00 AM sharp. Seven days. Seven long days of this carefully choreographed dance, dictated by a virus and a well-meaning psychologist. My life had become a bizarre routine ever since Anasooya, my flatmate, tested positive for COVID-19.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the floor cool under my bare feet. The fear, a constant companion these past days, lurked in the back of my mind. Could I have it too? The doctor had warned that the proximity made it likely, hence the strict isolation measures.
First, the yoga. Deep breaths, stretching limbs, trying to center myself in this strange, isolating world. My therapist had suggested it, a way to manage the anxiety blooming in my chest. “Routine is your friend,”
she’d said. It felt more like a jailer, but I went through the motions, the familiar poses a small comfort.
Next, the cleaning. Every surface, wiped down with disinfectant. It felt like a constant battle against an invisible enemy. Then came the cooking. I was no chef, but I’d learned to whip up some basic, nutritious meals. Today, it was dal and rice. I plated two portions, carefully placing one in front of Anasooya’s door, a silent offering to the woman sequestered inside. A soft knock, and then I retreated, returning to the kitchen to eat silently alone.
Work from home had become a surreal experience. Days blurred together, a monotonous cycle of emails, video calls, and the constant hum of my laptop. The silence of the apartment was deafening, punctuated only by the occasional muffled cough from Anasooya’s room. I missed her presence, the small sounds of everyday life that had once been our shared soundtrack.
Evenings were the most peculiar. We’d sit on opposite sides of the dividing wall, our backs to it, and talk. A strange, disembodied conversation. It was another of the psychologist’s “techniques,” aimed at maintaining a connection without risking further exposure.
“Anasooya,” I began tonight, my voice a little too loud in the quiet room, “are you an introvert?” A pause. Then, her voice, a little muffled through the plasterboard. “Not actually.”
I frowned, thinking of her quiet demeanor, the way she often kept to herself even before this. “But mostly I didn’t see you talking much.”
“Well,” she replied, the tone thoughtful, “if other people are not there to speak with me. then what can I do?”
Her words hung in the air, a revelation. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk, it was that she needed someone to engage. And I realized, with a pang of guilt, that maybe I hadn’t been that person. I had always seen her as quiet and reserved, never thinking that maybe she was simply waiting to be invited in.