Iktsuarpok (Inuit, for “anticipation”), by Tripti, New Delhi

Born, raised, and currently living in New Delhi, Tripti deeply believes in the power of kindness and justice to promote human rights for vulnerable communities across the globe. 

I take his phone out of his hands and click on the link over and over.

Click. Click. Click.

“This is how you can access the report,” they had told me.

“Yeah, I am trying. Wait,” I tell my father, who is seated on the floor in the far corner of the room, trying to maintain a semblance of some distance.

His temperature had dropped below 95 degrees Celsius, and we had been joyous that there was no fever. Then, on June 12th, on his 26th wedding anniversary, the temperature made a slow and steady climb ‘til it finally reached 100, and I knew my worst fears had materialized.

I haven’t told my mother and sister, who are quarantining separately on the fourth floor. My sister is the worst liar, and once my mother gets to know, there are chances of some maddening hysteria. Father and I don’t want to frighten her, so we have conveniently lied throughout the day. 

“I can’t access your report for some reason,” I tell him.“Forward the link to me.”

I say “a semblance of some distance,” because if he has COVID-19 and his symptoms have started showing, that means I most probably have it, too. He and I have been living in this small room ever since my mother tested positive almost a week back. My sister had given out a scream that sounded very much like an eaglet wailing in the wild. The June heat was unbearable, and the rooms were blasting hot air. My sister, a silly little thing, had lost her smile and seemed so dogged down by worry; I had sent her some comedy videos to get some laughter out of her.

I click on the link over and over again. The hospital hadn’t notified us about my mother’s report, so maybe this is just another glitch. I am reminded of my literature professor saying that humans desperately cling onto the unlikeliest of hopes in the darkest of times. My hands feel sweaty. Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s my overriding anxiety.

The link works on the 99th try, and I am greeted with my father’s name and age at the top of the page. I quickly scan the yellow document with my eyes. The report has the word ‘positive’ in one column, but the other column says ‘inconclusive’.

Humans desperately cling on to the unlikeliest of hopes in the darkest of times.

“Papa, this report looks different! Maybe you don’t have it! I’ll call and ask the lab.”

I don’t really want to call and ask the lab. I want to keep this nightmare at bay, even if it means living in ignorance. My anxiety is shooting through the roof, and I feel as if someone has punched me in the gut. I want to throw up.  

I remember when my mother was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. In a moment of vulnerability, I saw the three of them– my mother, father, and sister– huddle and cry. Filled with contempt, I shouted at them. I wonder if it means I don’t care about her. The thought plagues me like a dark secret and fills me with shame.

As I think of my father, panic and remorse take hold of me, and I am filled with terrifying, terrifying fear.

A young girl responds on the other side of the phone.

“Yes, he has COVID-19,” she reinstates in a matter-of-fact manner.

I sit in the fading light. I wonder if it’s symbolic. The 58 year old man before me has suffered from chronic asthma since he was 20. I look at his eyes that resemble mine so much, and maybe, I think to myself, just maybe, his fear is more terrifying than mine?

Hope, faith, love.

Come. Let us be strong just this once.

About the photo: The unfurnished rooms where my mother and sister quarantined filled with blinding light in the harsh summer months. My sister fashioned this curtain from an old, tattered bedsheet, to offer some respite from the fierce heat. 

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(This story was prepared for an “Imagine Another World” online storytelling workshop held October 16, 2020.)

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