An Oral History of the COVID-19 Crisis: 'When we step out, it's as if we've come into an unknown world'

Sana Altaf is a Kashmir-based journalist. “Positive,” says the voice on the other side of the phone. Seconds later, my text notification rings. Anxious, I look at the report for any error. There are none. I shut the door of my room where I had isolated for two days after a minor sore throat before testing COVID positive. My heart races. I shiver. It is not the disease that I fear. I worry for my son. How would he manage without me for two weeks? I’m filled with dread. I gather myself, trying to clear my head and think logically. I make a few calls to arrange COVID tests for my family, stock medicines and essentials. All the while, I see my son cheerfully playing in the garden, unaware of the new reality that has struck. This too shall pass, I remind myself. But deep inside, a worry lingers. What if my son is also positive? What if my entire family is infected? I mostly spend the night tossing and turning in bed. At around 2 am, as I start to doze off, my phone rings. “He’s got a fever I guess,” says my mom. My heart sinks. I get out of the bed, reminding myself to be strong. I layer up three masks, grab a sanitising spray and walk downstairs. With every step I take, I feel like a time bomb that could blow the whole house. I touch his forehead. He’s febrile. I quickly pull him out of the bed. By now I am sure he too is infected, which the reports confirm the next day. Leaving him with other family members is a risk, I tell myself. We walk back into my room, and I put him on the bed. “Why are you wearing so many masks?” my very inquisitive son asks. I am sick, I tell him, and quickly give him some milk and medicine. Happy to be awake in the middle of the night, he starts chatting. I tell him a story to keep him engaged as I wait for his temperature to come down. It is then that we hear the voice of Sahar Khawan as he beats his drum. “Waqat-e-Sahaar (time for suhoor),” he yells. It’s my son’s first Ramzan outside of Dubai. He’s awed by Sehar Khwan and wakes up at suhoor to see him. Read more from the Oral History Project here. “Mama Sherkhan," he says, and joyfully runs to the window. As the pre-dawn visitor’s drum beating fades away, we slip into our bed. By now my son’s fever is gone and he is sleepy. Why are you not hugging me? he asks again. I ignore his question. Watching him sleep peacefully, I move to the farthest corner of the bed, creating a divide with pillows. With three masks on, I put my head on my pillow. It is then that I feel the COVID aches in my body. I am going to be fine, I remind myself and sleep. The sun rays piercing through the slits of the curtains wake me up the next morning. I touch my son’s forehead. No fever. I am relieved. “I want to go to the garden,” my son springs up from the bed. “I want to go out.” “Listen,” I tell him, as I sit him down. “There are lots of germs outside. It is making everyone sick, like us. So if we stay indoors for some days, eat well and rest, we will be powerful. Then germs cannot harm us.” He stares at me. “Then we can play in the garden?” Yes, I promise. Before he can ask more questions, I tell him how I will be spending all my time with him. He is excited to know that I will not be doing any office work and will play with him all day. He finishes his breakfast. I sit in another corner of the room to eat. He looks at me strangely. I smile. You don’t kiss me or hug me, he complains. I look at him without answering. I grab some of his cars and start playing with him. I stuff the room with all of his toys. He parks his scooter along the wardrobe, puts his cricket kit, football and tennis set in one corner of the room. Off and on, he insists on getting out of the room. I try to reason with him and make him stay. In about two days, he adapts to his new surroundings. As my body presents new symptoms almost every day, his presence makes me stronger. Despite my disabling fatigue, I play with my son, dance to his favourite Arabic song and tell him stories. One of the things that we love doing is feeding birds each morning. While he eats breakfast, flocks of pigeons and sparrows gather in the garden below. Few come to our window pane. He feeds them and talks to them. One brown and white pigeon is our favourite. Every day, it comes, pecks at grains and coos before flying off. We wait for it every day, carefully watching its moves. It’s our regular visitor as we play his hosts. On day 10 of our isolation, we move out of the room for a walk in the lawn. The moment we step outside, a strange feeling takes over. Everything looks unknown and new: the sky, the grass, the flowers. It’s as if we’ve come into an unknown world. I try to cheer my son up. He looks surprised. In less than 10 minutes, he insists on going back to the room. The following day we feel better to spend some time in the garden. I show him the flowers he hand-planted, his favourite tree, the small apples on the trees. Gradually, we begin to enjoy the outdoors every evening. But our mornings are fun with our birds on the window. The day our isolation ends, my son runs across the house, goes to every room asking every member of the family if he is free to play now. As we slowly slip into our routines, our favourite brown pigeon stops coming. I put grains for it each day only to be eaten by sparrows. Since then, my son looks out of the window every morning, hoping to see his favourite brown pigeon, waiting to feed him and talk to him. Write to us with your COVID-19 pandemic and lockdown experiences for inclusion in the Oral History Project at firstculturefeatures@gmail.com