The story continues from here: https://bij.li/fiction/the-beginning-of-another-pandemic
The deep yellow evening sun was blazing into our eyes. The daytime heat was yet to subside. We were inching towards Mumbai. We had not lowered our windows, yet we felt the earth bearing the weight of the stench. A physical, tangible presence that had grown during the heat of the day and promised to continue through the evening and later.
Inside the car, the air-condition felt like it would give away sooner than later. Our body heat had long overwhelmed the artificial coolness of the air. Within our nostrils and beneath our skins, a mix of another set of odors – sweat, fine dust, bad breath, and the smell of unchanged diapers.
Despite the wetness of the diapers, we had stopped squirming. Keeping still did not release as much smell. But still, there was no escape from odor.
Like us, other cars inched towards Mumbai. There were no open vehicles – bikes, rickshaws, trucks, and buses were conspicuous by their absence. Only cars. Windows tightly shut, air-conditioning fully on.
Occasionally, there would be eye contact with occupants of other cars, and perhaps a nod. All faces said the same story – anxiety, sleeplessness, boredom – and fear.
WhatsApp had not downloaded any message since the morning. The news portals had nothing new to say. There were some reports of film stars leaving the country and a cricket tournament being shifted to another country. That was the only hint that the stench had not affected other countries.
By late evening, we had moved to a flyover just outside of Mumbai. The streets beneath were deserted. Shops were closed. Trucks, rickshaws, handcarts, cycles, and bikes were parked haphazardly. There were a few people walking around, scarves and towels tightly wrapped around their faces. Occasionally, a vehicle passed through. The only other sign of life were stray animals and birds. It did not seem like the smell affected them.
As night fell, the kids fidgeted. They wanted to go home. Bathroom. Shower. Home food. “So do we,” we told them. But we did not know what lay ahead. We agreed that we would take a decision once we could make better sense of how it was outside. Right now, even a slight rolling down of the window invited the stench.
Night fell. As we reached the end of the expressway, we could see barricades and men in fluorescent jackets and gas masks. Like what we had seen at the other end of the expressway, they were letting a few cars through. Most of the others were taking a U-turn back on to the expressway. We wondered if we could get a better idea of what to expect if we moved into the city.
When we reached the barricade, a policeman slipped a few sheets of paper through the tiny gap we rolled down for him. He signaled that we should turn back. I replied that we would like to go through. He did the “whatever for?” signal and slapped the side of his head but let us through. He waved at us furiously: get lost, go fast. Then he moved on to the next car.
The road ahead was empty. On Google Maps, I set the destination as “home.” The lines were blue all through. The traffic was sparse. Everyone else was moving just as fast as us. For the first time, we realized that lights were not on in any apartment or building. Only streetlights and the light from vehicles.
I read the papers that were given by the policemen. There were six sheets, three of which were photocopies of instructions printed on a Mumbai police letterhead. There was another sheet with helpline numbers, and a yellow sheet which had instructions on what to do during a nuclear disaster.
Their advise was to move to an open area, away from cities and congested habitation. That was the only new advice apart from the same content that the news websites were broadcasting. The nuclear sheet was absurd and seemed to come from a 1980s nuclear war survival manual. I folded it and kept it away.
We reached our apartment complex. The parking lots were deserted. Only a few flats had their lights on. There was no sign of human life. Abandoned pets were roaming with strays.
As we got closer to our building, our devices crackled into activity. WhatsApp messages poured in; a couple of emails from the office and dozens of text messages and missed call notifications. We stopped beneath our building to catch up.
There was nothing from my siblings in the US and Europe, which meant that the WhatsApp censorship algorithm was still functioning well. The office network was quiet except for the two emails that expressed concern about our well-being and asked us to continue working from home. There were a couple of work-related messages from colleagues on the internal chat, both of which presumed that work would be delayed. I was tempted to write to my overseas colleagues but decided against it.
There were many forwards in praise of the country’s leaders on how well they were managing the situation. One of them attributed this to the newly upgraded Air India One. The prime minister and his team were currently on board the flight and were managing the country with the same technology that was available only to the US president. It was apparently something to be proud of, they said.
There were some messages from scientists which said the stench was due to Jupiter being in transit and will wear off soon. In my relatives’ groups, the young were discussing how to go abroad; the older ones were against the idea; it would take too long, and the government was bound to get suspicious. The youngsters then suggested hiring ships and sailing out. There were no replies yet.
There was some discussion on the office WhatsApp groups speculating what the government would do next. There was an offer by one of the Indian businessmen to help repurpose Covid19 shelters for the stench. It was apparently turned down because the stench was unbearable in these places.
Most seemed to think that the stench would subside on its own at some point.
But no one had anything to say on what caused it.
Leave a Reply