The Sacrificial Animal

Dilruba Z. Ara

If Orhan had parted the jalousie slats by his bed, he would have had a picture-perfect view of the garden, stretching from his window to the ivy-covered parapet at the other end of the roof. But this morning the warmth of the bed, in combination with the sound of pelting rain on his windowpane, had a stronger hold on him. He stirred and pulled the kantha quilt over his head.

Roses, daisies, tuberoses, jasmines, carnations, and other flowers whose names he did not know, thrived in succession in that garden, lending unpredictable sequences of shades and scents at intervals. Sometimes, Orhan would walk his fiancée amongst the flowers via live video messages. On other occasions, he would record his experiences and email her before having his breakfast – a cup of tea and two pieces of toast. Then he would flick through FB entries, answer messages, read news headlines, before starting on the series of poems he had been composing over the last few months.

Though Corona was raging in his neighbourhood, he had managed to achieve a certain calm in his rooftop sanctuary. From the onset of the epidemic, like everyone else, he watched and listened to news around the clock – the scenes from Italy and Spain, Britain and China had all got the best of him, leaving him with an undefinable fear. And, like most people, he had stopped meeting with friends, attending social gatherings, or visiting shopping malls, which he found a much easier call than commanding himself to regulate his online time. However, after several weeks’ struggle, he had finally managed to compress his news viewing to an hour, which he considered would suffice to keep abreast of fresh details.

Not only did this one hour feed him the ever-increasing number of deaths, the global impact of the pandemic and the advice of the Health Ministry, it also reinforced his fear of the virus, to the level that he began to suspect his own hands and wash them time and again. But last night, during that time span of an hour, the news about Covid 19 was overshadowed by the death of a man named George Floyd, which had pinned Orhan to his seat. Instead of keeping his hands away from him, he had clasped them together, trying to accommodate the strange emotions the video had stirred in him. It was utterly dissimilar to the emotions he felt when he heard of people dying from the virus, or when he watched scenes from various hospitals. As soon as the news was over, he switched to YouTube and replayed the video several times, trying to understand what it was he was watching. A man was being throttled to death by another man in a country like America, in a time when the word death, without exception, reminded one of Covid.

This rainy morning, as Orhan lay there in his bed, his mind floated to George Floyd, and along with him to all black Americans. About their existence in a nation where they are forced to deal with the tension of dual identity: black and American. What about the white Americans? Do they also feel this sense of duality? Or does the colour white equate to transparent, and only those individuals who are born with such skin can claim to be authentic Americans? Orhan’s eyes were closed, but he recollected the scene with intense clarity, wondering about the size of the policeman’s knee, the weight of it, about the pain and anguish that Floyd was experiencing during those moments he was not only trapped in the agony of death, but was also being stripped of his dignity as a human. George Floyd – a knee carrying the whole weight of another grown man on his neck, his shaven head, and cheek pressed on hard asphalt, his nasal blood making a pattern on the tarmac, writing history.

Before moving into this room, Orhan had been an obscure artist, but now his name was starting to show up here and there. He was active on social media, he contributed regularly to newspapers and magazines, he wrote columns, and, before Corona’s advent, he frequently attended book clubs. He met like-minded people. He felt satisfied in the role of a true artist, whose only mission in life was to be recognised as a poet. As a teenager he read Bengali poets, as a university student he read Asian poets, world poets. His knowledge of English was sufficient for him to be able to enjoy poets like Keats, Shelly and Byron. At a younger age his dream was to perfect his English, but at university, he was hooked on Chinese literature after having read a translation of a poem by Li Bai. Therefore, he set his heart on mastering Chinese and started taking lessons as soon as he arrived in Dhaka. Dhaka offered so much, gave so much. He would write epic poems about Dhaka. He would write about its beauty and charm, its magic and its realism. He would make this city his home, until his last breath.

His shift to Dhaka had not been sudden. He had been in search of a position in Dhaka since the day he had become legally adult and was prepared to do any odd job that would provide him with enough free time to write. And when, after several stumbling blocks, he was offered a position as a supervisor for this block of flats, he accepted that position more than happily. In exchange for his services, he would get free meals, a furnished room with an attached bath, electricity, Wi-Fi and a decent salary. His afternoons and evenings would be his own. Apart from that, he would be free on Fridays and all national holidays. Orhan moved into his lodgings within a week of the initial exchange of emails and the follow-up interview on Skype.

Even though it was nothing unusual for any striving young artist from the countryside to move to the capital, the prospect of making a rooftop room his home, in one of the busiest commercial roads of the city, was very much so. It was an area that was changing every day. Old houses were being demolished, high-rise buildings were shooting up, skylines were constantly shifting. Small shops were disappearing, making space for fancy boutiques or more high-rises. There were Burger King, Nando’s, Subway, Karaoke bar – names that he had previously seen only on foreign films and series. Cars crowded the street; sassy young people walked freely, wearing branded outfits. Eye-catching girls came riding motorbikes. University students gathered at Star Kebab’s during lunch breaks. From his first arrival here, Orhan would often sit on the ledge of the roof and look down on the street whenever he had a chance. In those days, the street was always pulsating, but now, since the outbreak of Covid, it was virtually empty. So now when he sat there, he often looked up at the sky. During those moments he felt closer to heaven – if there was such a thing as heaven. From the thirteenth floor, the sky seemed nearer than the street. 

The ground floor of the building was a women’s boutique, which the affluent frequented. The second and third floors were let out to business enterprises. The rest of the floors were accommodated by company staff – Europeans and Bangladeshis. Orhan’s employer, Mr. Soul, lived on the twelfth floor, together with his wife, Ma’am Rose. Orhan’s office was downstairs, a cubicle in the middle of the huge boutique. Before Orhan knew, he was doing full-time secretarial work as well as keeping account of the revenues from the flats and the boutique. Ma’am Rose and Mr. Soul said they valued an honest person like him, which is why they entrusted him with money matters.

Mr Soul was often away at his various businesses. Ma’am Rose sometimes accompanied him, sometimes not. Their twin daughters – the same age as Orhan – worked in Silicon Valley in the States. They regularly visited Dhaka during summer vacations, Orhan was told, but this year the virus had come between parents and children. By this time, Orhan had been here already a year.

Rain was still pouring down in buckets. A deep peal of thunder was rolling. Orhan shifted in his bed and puffed out a mouthful of air under the blanket. Still, he did not feel like leaving the bed. He kept thinking of Floyd and his fate, and was unexpectedly appreciative that, in death, Floyd had given him a window to make use of his artistic vein in a different way from what he had been doing for weeks. The theme of Corona was already beginning to lose its allure for him. Everyone was writing about it, talking about it, whereas Floyd’s death had forced on him other concerns. It was a fresh insight into what the world was like, what humans were like. Some men were always more equal than others, even in the face of death, no matter to which society they belonged. The powerful always trample on the powerless. I must grab my unprocessed feelings before they fade out, he told himself, and shoved his quilt away to reach out for his iPad. Lying on his back he started to tap on it. His fingers moved quickly, words poured out from his fingertips like the rain pouring down outside – he felt curiously free from the sense of isolation and anxiety that had been creeping in on him since lockdown. Some thirty minutes had passed and Orhan was deep in thought, when a text from a friend popped up at the bottom of his iPad:

Hello! Just finished reading The Plague. Shall we have a video discussion on it when you have time?

Orhan had been hearing of The Plague since the pandemic broke out but had not read it yet – he did not want the disease to come to him in the shape of a book. He would rather read it when the air was pure again, when Covid was beaten. He texted back:

What is more dangerous: Covid 19, or we humans?

What?

Orhan smiled and was about to tap his answer when his mobile buzzed. He reached out and took the set from his night table. The CLID read Ma’am Rose.

“Good morning, Ma’am.”

Orhan was still holding the iPad with his left hand.

“Morning Orhan, I need you to accompany Soul to the United.” The voice was urgent.

“United Hospital?” Orhan sat straight up in bed. He put down the iPad.

“Yes. He has been running a temperature for a few days now. He has to be tested for Covid.”

“I see, Ma’am.”

Orhan frowned. His eyes darkened. Floyd’s image disappeared. Orhan had been keeping himself in quarantine, sticking to Ma’am Rose’s directives. Roughly five weeks ago she had read out the rules to him through the door phone when Orhan had gone down to the twelfth floor to be briefed on his tasks for the day. Ma’am Rose, standing on the other side of the closed door, had advised Orhan not to leave the roof until he was told otherwise. His meals would be sent up on to the landing and if she needed any help with official works, she would email or call him. He must not on any account flout the rules. Before Orhan could say anything, she had hung up.

Orhan’s gaze had moved up and down the high and wide door. Above the door there was a sizeable metallic construction of the Holy Qur’an attached to the wall. The open pages displayed the first five verses of Sura Yasin – the thirty-sixth chapter– the heart of the Quran, the most important section. The pages were gold and the letters were penned in black calligraphy. Orhan had never seen Qur’anic verses being displayed on the entrance door before coming to Dhaka. Reciting it every day was said to help one solve the problems of this worldly life; it abolishes multiple fears of the heart and opens up the door to thousand blessings and benefits. It brings ease and peace to a dying person. Standing on the landing, he had murmured to himself that the book needs to be buffed up, the brass is losing its shine, the letters need to proclaim their power.

That was the last time Orhan had climbed down from his rooftop lodging. To pass his time, he did sit-ups, gymnastics, weight training, and walked on the roof among the flowers or sat on the patio, read, wrote, ate and slept. Of course, he had not been able to meet up with his fiancée, nor had he been able to socialise or visit his family or friends for months now. But then, he was not the only one who was living like this, he reminded himself when he missed human company. He had video chatted with his fiancée every day, shared meals with her in front of the webcam, and once a week they watched the same series on Netflix. Orhan counted his blessings; he had more space than an inmate. And Covid, though reaping lives far and near, seemed to him a distant phenomenon. He was living at a safe remove from the virus-infested world down there, listening to music, reading and writing, breathing clean air, keeping his body free from harm to enable his artistic mind to thrive. The virus could not touch him. He was safe, even though it had made him a prisoner on the roof.

But what now? He must go to the hospital. He shook his head again. The frown on his forehead deepened. From Italy and England, virus carriers had come and polluted Dhaka’s air with their invisible threat. People, other than those with Covid symptoms or life-threatening issues, were urged to avoid hospitals by any means. But he was being asked to go there to have a vicarious experience as a carrier of the virus. Why doesn’t Ma’am Rose accompany her husband? If Mr. Soul is contaminated, then she must be contaminated too – they lived under the same roof. Why is she asking him to accompany her husband – a possible bearer of the dangerous virus? Is it not her duty, as his wife? It is not that she is devoutly Muslim and shy of men. She doesn’t cover her head and travels abroad herself – so why not to the hospital to support her husband? Why should he replace her? He was not their slave, nor their relative; they were practically strangers. It was not only an absurd directive, but also unethical. What gave her the right to ask him to perform a duty that he had not been hired for? Orhan felt anger seething within him. But he knew he could not refuse her in his position. Though he was neither a slave nor a relative, he was powerless.

“Get ready. He will go down soon.”

“I can walk to the hospital and meet up with him there.”

“A car ride will be more comfortable for you.”

“I have not been outdoors in weeks; a walk will do me good.”

“No, you must accompany him in the car.” Ma’am Rose continued, “I have spoken with Dr. M. He will see to it that Soul gets special treatment. You will not face the crowd.”

“Ma’am...” Orhan’s voice sounded feeble in his own ears.

“As soon as the tests are run, you are coming back.” Suddenly, Ma’am Rose’s voice had switched to being sweet and beseeching. “Orhan, we have always been good to you and treated you as our family member. Wouldn’t you accompany your father if he were ill? If my children were here, we wouldn’t ask you.”

Orhan was still fumbling for an excuse to avoid the situation. Then he remembered his mother telling him that his lungs were weak and that he should not catch a cold. But before he could say anything, Ma’am Rose went on to speak of the moral obligations of a good Muslim, and for a good effect she also threw in some Arabic phrases and reminded him how important it was for every Muslim to help another in need. Then she hung up, giving him no chance to speak. In Orhan’s mind, the image of the Holy Qur’an on the top of the entrance door to Mr. Soul and Ma’am Rose’s abode flashed now. Putting up a pious image for one’s benefit is becoming trendy among the well-off. But is God blind? Of course not, otherwise the brass would not be losing its shine.

Orhan got up and walked over to the washroom. Behind him, on his iPad, the lines on George Floyd shimmered for a moment before the machine went onto sleep mode. He let the tap run and reconsidered whether to leave quietly, shut the door behind him, make his way down and go home to his hometown. But people were not allowed to travel between cities and parishes. Armed forces were guarding the check posts. What am I to do? What am I to do? Should I call my parents and seek advice? No, no, I can never burden them now. And Ma’am used the phrase moral obligation. Moral obligation? That was a heavy phrase.

He brushed his teeth, shaved, got dressed, took his mobile and wallet and grabbed his box of masks and a bandana he had bought but never had to use before. When he was ready, he stood on the threshold, taking stock of the room. For a minute, his glance lingered on a Li Bai scroll alongside his Master’s Certificate above his desk, and then he turned. Outside the rain had ceased, but the rooftop was still wet, and flowers and leaves were still heavy with rainwater. Orhan did not stop to look at them, but on his way down he stopped in front of the entrance door of Mr. and Mrs. Soul’s apartment. His eyes lifted to the Qur’an. The brass was darker than the last time; a thick film of dust had distorted the verses. For a second, Orhan was amused by the antics of human nature; the cleaning agency was not less twofaced than their clients. When I come back, I will have to clean it up.

The main street was still empty. The boutiques, the restaurants, the convenience shop were closed. A single crow walked on the road, its shadow walking by it. Standing on the sidewalk, Orhan took in the scene. Along the wall of the opposite building, a builder was walking on a scaffold. His radio was on full blast. Orhan turned his face to look up at his own room, though he knew it could not be seen from this side of the building. He only saw the vine-covered iron barriers along the edge of the roof. As he lowered his gaze, he spotted Ma’am Rose’s eyes. He emitted a small sigh behind his mask, nodded, and walked towards the car on the driveway. Chauffeur Charon was there, dusting the car. It was black and big.

“How are you, Charon?” Orhan asked as he approached Charon. “When did you get back from your village?”

“Last night. Ma’am called.” He did not look at Orhan and sounded exhausted.

“I see.” Orhan nodded a few times. Charon needed his salary to feed his extended family. If he had failed to come, he might have been sacked straight away. But how did Charon manage to dodge the check-post surveillance? I need to speak with him before it is too late, Orhan told himself and took another step towards Charon, when Mr. Soul emerged leaning on the shoulder of the in-house errand boy. Orhan stepped back, and Charon stood instantly upright, holding open one side door for Mr. Soul.

Orhan waited a little before turning his back to the building to get into the car. He seated himself next to Charon. They drove along the road, turned left keeping Star Kebab on their right, out onto Road 11 and then left towards Gulshan bridge. Orhan regarded the street. A handful of people were out, dayworkers and a few rickshaws. To the left of the bridge were fancy, high-raise flats and on the right was the dramatically clashing Korai slum. The car moved on to Gulshan Road. Ambulances drove past one after another, hooting sirens. This was the first time since Orhan had come to Dhaka that he had seen a clear road for ambulances to pass at that speed.

Orhan’s thoughts were interrupted when Mr. Soul suddenly commenced coughing. It was a dry, persistent cough, and the rasping sound of it threw Orhan into a state of uncontrollable fear. He was now acutely conscious of his own helpless state, as well as dismayed by his own lack of ability to speak up for himself. He twitched in his place and held his breath under his facemask, wishing desperately he could escape from this anxiety of being forcefully confined in a space together with a person who might be carrying the virus. He wished he could gather his courage and grab hold of the steering wheel, forcing Charon to pull over. Instead, he gasped behind his mask and turned to Mr. Soul over his shoulder. Charon’s hands were steady on the wheel.

“How are you feeling, Sir?” he asked.

Mr. Soul smiled faintly and replied: “Exhausted!” His voice was hoarse.

“The road is free; we will get there soon. Hang in there, Sir!” He looked out of the window on his side. They had stopped by a red light, and a lorry carrying livestock coming from the opposite direction stopped alongside his window. There had been rumours that people were using cattle trucks to hide under the animals to cross police checkpoints. These animals seemed confused, riding in a standing position on a man-made vehicle, and perhaps also sheltering some self-proclaimed evacuees unbeknownst to them. Ah! Charon perhaps used a cattle truck like this. No, no, I could not do that. Never. No way. I am not an animal. But where are these animals heading to, to a sacrificial ground? Or to a butcher’s knife? People still need foodstuffs, even during a pandemic. Mr. Soul coughed again. Orhan wound down the window and put his head out. The cows watched him.

What are they watching? Do they know that a man like me will soon be slashing at their throats? In a flash, Orhan remembered George Floyd’s eyes. What kind of visual picture Floyd was registering on his way to the other life? How did the world appear to him from down there, from under that killing knee? Did he see how people had become spectators on the sidewalk, did he see the birds in flight above him, if there were any birds? Or were his eyes, instead of taking in images, busy signalling panic, as it appeared on the video? How did he feel, not able to breathe? How did he feel, dying in a trap like an animal? What is the difference between an animal’s breathing and a human’s breathing? Or, for that matter, a flower’s breathing? Was there any difference, at all? I can’t breathe! Twelve letters, a perfect closure for any living entity – then the curtain drops. The world – the audience – holds its breath, watching the extent of man’s cruelty. Tears were trickling down from the eyes of the cows. Orhan swallowed a clump of saliva and turned away.

Private cars were lined up in the driveway to the hospital, dropping off patients, some alone, others in twos or threes. Arrows and signposts were directing the place for the Covid test. A disharmony of coughing and sneezing engulfed Orhan as soon as he got out of the car. He walked side-by-side with Mr. Soul, cutting that sound. Mr. Soul was walking at a much slower pace than usual and making efforts to breathe deeply in between his bouts of coughing. Doctors and nurses, dressed in their protective gear, walked past them hurriedly. It was like a scene from a science-fiction film. Suddenly, Orhan felt tired. For the first time, he was now fully aware of being dragged into a situation from where he would not be able to escape. Until this morning, he had been missing the sound of human voices, but now the sounds exhausted him. They irritated his nerves. He hated those sounds.

Mr. Soul was an influential businessman, so his tests were run as soon as they reached the designated area, and immediately after that, he and Orhan were ushered into a small room where they were asked to wait for Dr. Murad – Ma’am Rose’s next of kin. They sat there as far as possible from each other and waited. Orhan in silence. Mr. Soul coughing at times. Dr. Murad made his appearance after a quarter of an hour, also fully dressed in protective gear and several layers of masks under his vizor. Standing in the doorway, he excused himself for being late and said: “Soul, I have arranged a cabin for you to rest until we know the results. Take the lift up to the top floor and register there.”

“Thank you!” Mr. Soul turned to Orhan: “Orhan, text Charon to return home and to wait there until further notice.” He coughed on his handkerchief and stood up: “It will take a couple of hours before all the results come. You go to your room and make yourself comfortable.” Dr. Murad said as he backed away from the doorway Mr. Soul stepped out of the room to follow Dr. Murad’s lead.

Orhan walked behind them. His anxiety walked with him. His feet felt numb. He had to command them to walk in an even pace. The doctor looked over his head towards him for a second and then looked away.

The lift brought them to the top floor where the Corona unit was. On the sliding glass door to the entrance was written “Covid patients”. At the reception desk, two nurses were ready with papers. The formalities were done very quickly, and then they were directed to the cabin.

It was a sizeable en suite room, furnished with modern medical equipment. Apart from the bed, there was a flat TV on the wall, a coffee table, an armchair, and a couch along with a large window at the far end of the room. Mr. Soul entered, hung his coat in the closet in the small hallway, and disappeared into the bathroom on the right to change into patients’ dress. During those few minutes when Orhan was alone, he took off his shoes, put on hospital slippers and walked up to the huge window overlooking Gulshan lake. The clouds had burst again, rain-bombing the surface of the lake; Orhan could not make out the other side of the lake. A thick sheet of rain hindered his vision. The weather was tear-filled. He opened the windowpane, breathing in lungs full of rain-drenched air before closing it again. Then he sat down on the couch and closed his eyes.

The results came after three hours. Positive! Mr. Soul must stay at the hospital; since he had already had the symptoms for a few days, everything might start deteriorating now. If things got serious, he would have to be transferred to ICU. The next few days would determine the severity of his infection. “He must therefore stay under constant observation”, added Dr. Murad on the phone.

Mr. Soul thanked Dr. Murad and turned to Orhan:

“Get your Madam on the line. I need to speak to her.”

When Orhan connected them. He heard Mr. Soul saying between bouts of coughing.

“Yes, it’s positive, and Orhan will be staying with me. No, you must not come here under any circumstances. Hospital is teeming with Covid patients.”

Orhan’s ears pricked up. He was supposed to be with Mr. Soul until the test was run. What is happening now? I have never even entered the living room of this couple, and now I am to spend nights in the same room as Mr. Soul. Nobody has ever cared to ask me whether I am willing to be Mr. Soul’s sickbed attendant? But Orhan was not surprised. He was, however, to understand that no words of protest were expected of him. Orhan struggled to speak up, but no appropriate words came.

Mr. Soul exchanged a few more words with Ma’am Rose, called his daughters in the States, and then took a sip of water, half sitting on the bed. At that moment, a nurse entered with a tray in her hand. She clipped a pulse oximeter on one of Mr. Soul’s fingers, checked his temperature and helped him have some tablets. She looked strong and fearless in her Covid outfit.

When she was ready, she turned to Orhan.

“Hello!”

“Hi.” Orhan nodded, overcoming his distaste.

“Give him two paracetamol every six hours and check on his oxygen saturation level, it should not go below ninety.”

“Pardon?”

“We are running short of medical staff. Now that you are here, you had better give us a hand.” She stood straight.

Am I to be exploited by the hospital as well? Orhan murmured to himself behind his mask. Suddenly, it was all too obvious to him why Dr. M did not try to stop him from entering the zone for Covid patients. I am being used as a dumb animal. It was about time I reacted – a little longer and I might myself become a Covid patient. Orhan shook his head – perhaps I have already become a carrier of the virus, it is too late. I can’t leave this place and spread the disease to others – the virus must be multiplying within me. The air of the room began to feel stifling, intensifying his discomfort. He trembled, struggling with a reflex to get to his feet and run. But he remained immobile and sweat broke out on his forehead. There is no need for exaggerated anxiety at this point, he scolded himself, get a grip, Orhan, you crossed the boundary the moment you got into that car with Mr. Soul. Now you are in the front line. Fight it like a soldier does in a battlefield.

“Is he your father?”

“No.” Orhan shook his head.

The nurse was quiet for a moment. Then she asked:

“Have you then already had Covid?”

“No.”

“I see,” she continued. “Can you step out a minute, please? As I said, now that you have been exposed to it, you had better stay with him and help us. I need to brief you about the routine.” She walked out of the room. Orhan left the couch and, keeping his distance from the bed, his back grazing on the wall, he went out into the corridor. The moment he closed the door, the nurse took two steps backwards.

“I will get you a hospital gown, gloves and masks. Make sure to take his temperature every hour and check on his oxygen saturation level and pulse every thirty minutes. Fill in the chart hanging by his footboard. You can call us from the room in case of emergency.” She paused to give him a chance to speak, but Orhan was silent.

“Very well.” She handed him a card and said: “You have free access to the patient’s cafeteria and washing facilities.”

Orhan looked at the ID card; it read Attendant.

She added. “There is a special lift from the Corona unit to the cafeteria – use that one.” She paused, and then added, “I have given Mr. Soul some sedatives. Try to keep him awake until the lunch trolley comes. You can have your meals sent to the room along with Mr. Soul’s. Just let us know what you would prefer.”

Orhan was thinking – he would need his pen and writing block, his iPad, his laptop, to not fall into boredom. Food was the last thing on his mind, even though he had not had his breakfast. What do I need more – my underwear, shaving tools, change of clothes? Even before he was ready with his thoughts, his mobile buzzed again. He lifted it to his ear and nodded to the nurse:

“I’m sending Charon with Soul’s stuff. Let me know what you need, I will have them sent to you,” Ma’am Rose said on the phone.

“Thanks, Ma’am, I will tell Charon what I need.”

“By the way, you will find a copy of the Qur’an in the bag. Recite Sura Yassin by Soul’s bedside every night before he falls asleep.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Anything else?”

“No, not at the moment.”

Orhan stepped into the room, slumped down on the sofa and covered his eyes with the back of his lower arm. Mr. Soul was watching TV.

After lunch, Mr. Soul fell asleep. Orhan collected his and Mr. Soul’s stuff from Charon and returned to the cabin. He wrote down random thoughts on his laptop. He tried analysing the nature of his shock and fear. Fear of death was closing on him, but still it seemed surreal because the shock had a greater impact. He switched on Facebook. One of his friends had written:

“Whales are dancing along the coastline of Cox’s Bazar; nature is reclaiming itself; the air is being cleansed – the hand of God working!”

Orhan had a faint smile on his face. God! Mr. Soul and Ma’am Rose are the agents of God in my life. They have orchestrated a plan whereby my life would be put in danger. God-fearing Mr. Soul and Ma’am Rose! Who will walk out of this room alive, me or Mr. Soul? The very thought sent a shiver through him. No, no, Orhan shook his head, I must not allow myself to get sentimentally obsessed with the thought of death. Everyone does not die of Covid. People do survive. Soldiers do return from battlefield. And I am still young.

Orhan had hardly managed to collect his bearing when Mr. Soul began to cough and brought Orhan back to reality with twofold fear. He jerked the blanket over his face. Three minutes should suffice for the virus to sink he told himself. Three slow minutes. Where he got that idea from, he did not know, but he was certain that the virus always settles against a solid surface, after floating in the air for three minutes. He needed to hold his breath as long as he could.

After a while, Mr. Soul’s coughing subsided, and he switched on the TV to surf the news programmes. From under the blanket, Orhan heard about the death toll, the lockdowns, WHO’s recommendation, along with the updates on George Floyd’s death and its aftermath in the world. Death and death. Lockdowns and a procession of dead bodies. Orhan fished out his earplugs from his pocket and put them on.

Mr. Soul said:

“It’s a dangerous disease, Orhan.”

“Yes, Sir.” Orhan kept his eyes closed. He was annoyed that the sounds still made their way to his auditory system. He put his palms on his plugged ears.

“Where are you, Orhan?” Mr. Soul raised his voice: “I can’t see you.”

“Ah, sorry Sir!” Orhan sat up on the sofa. He took off his earplugs. His eyes still closed. “I dozed off, Sir. Sorry!”

“Are you following the news? It’s targeting the older generation,” Mr. Soul continued. “I wonder what will happen to the world, there will be a void, you know Orhan, when all experienced, highly skilled intellectuals are gone, young people will have a hard time to rebuild the world without sagacious guidance.”

  “Excuse me, Sir, but the virus doesn’t discriminate against anyone. It’s a democratic disease.” He opened his eyes.

“Well, look at the statistics, mainly elderly people are dying. Young ones might die only if they have any underlying disease. But I fear I might not see my own bed again.”

“Be strong, Sir!” Orhan tried to console him while keeping his own fears within himself. He pushed away the crumpled blanket from his lap.

“We are all doomed to die, but it is distressing when you know when you will die.” Mr. Soul looked at the TV screen, there was again a replay of Floyd’s last minutes. “Such a fuss about an individual’s death when millions are dying!” Mr. Soul switched the TV off and turned on his side to cough. It was dry and persistent, accompanied by shortness of breath.

Orhan now sat straight, his handkerchief pressed tightly with his gloved hand over his mask; the sound of the name George Floyd had penetrated his Corona fears with strengthened momentum. Before long, he had surrendered to his thoughts again. Did Floyd know that the recording had gone viral? Did he know that his name would become a part of American history, only because his death happened to be video recorded? Would America, a land myth-spun with words like democracy and equality on the map of the civilised world, really care about the death of a man like Floyd if it had not been filmed? What about other countries? And Orhan himself, would he be reacting like this if it had not been video recorded? For sure, if Floyd had been choked by Covid and was filmed, the world would not be reacting like this. Orhan would not be reacting like this, because the air would have been squeezed out of Floyd’s lungs from inside as it was doing to men and women alike, disregarding race and status. Not like this. Not by another human, as with Floyd. But both had to do with breathing. Oxygen. Life. Orhan had a vague feeling that there was a resemblance between Floyd’s gasping for breath and a Corona patient’s gasping for breath, and also a distinction: in one case a bug was the killer and in another a human. But dying from Covid seemed less excruciating in comparison with how George Floyd had experienced his death.

He got up and took out the miniature Qur’an; a strip of a red silk band between two pages marked Sura Yassin. He sat down with the book by Mr. Soul’s head and recited the verses aloud. In the middle of the night, Mr. Soul’s condition grew worse. This time his body shuddered, the attacks came in succession, stopped, like the screech of a braking train. He groaned with each attack and assumed the foetal position, helplessly trying to keep himself steady. An oxygen mask was put on him. The following nights were terrible. He had severe chest pain. The coughing was worse; the oxygen level kept dropping because of respiratory distress. His breath withdrawing from his lungs was revealed as panic in his eyes, his lips were bluish, his vitals stopped responding to medication. Within a couple of days, it looked like ten years had been added to his age. He could barely move himself. The nurses and doctors kept in contact with Orhan, giving him instructions to monitor the oxygen level and meet his other requirements. When needed, Orhan would carry Mr. Soul to the washroom, change his clothes, shave him, trim his nails, brush his teeth and tuck him into bed. The ICU beds were all occupied, so he was to be treated in his cabin. To help him get some sleep, sedatives were injected and during those hours, Orhan would also doze off on the couch. He informed his family, friends and fiancée that he was busy with an important manuscript and would like not to be disturbed.

On the seventh day, Mr. Soul showed small signs of recuperation. His saturation level rose from seventy to seventy-five. Dr. M. urged him to try to breathe at intervals without the machine, which he did with tremendous effort, breathing heavily through his mouth, to begin with. Orhan kept note of his recuperating process, while his own hands trembled from fatigue and anxiety.

On the morning of the ninth day, the test came in negative. In the evening, Mr. Soul sat up on his bed and switched on the TV. Nothing was new, people were dying alone without families next to them, sealed corpses were being carried by volunteers early in the mornings to be interred in special Corona burial sites. Mr. Soul shook his head with boredom and kept on zapping channels until he hit on CNN. He leaned back on a pillow and concentrated on the news. It was all about Black Lives Matters.

Orhan, his eyes moving from the TV screen to Mr. Soul, wondered what he must be thinking, and felt sudden irritation at the phrase Black Lives Matters. Why on earth are they connecting the fact of colour to life? What has colour to do with life? Shouldn’t the slogan be Every Human Life Matters? Why should we humans allow ourselves to be defined in terms of such attributes, perpetuating a dichotomy between human significance and human existence? Aren’t we all equals to God? Mr. Soul would claim to be a civilised man. He must profess to oppose police brutality, to believe that ‘black lives matter’, indeed that all lives matter.  But where is the truth of it? He has ruthlessly exposed me to a situation from which I will probably end up experiencing the same kind of death agony as George Floyd during his last minutes. Gasping for breath. Respiratory failure. Like Floyd, I will be needing someone to pull me up into the abundance of oxygen. Allow my heart to continue beating. Rescue me. Orhan had never felt his social ranking more keenly than now, the stark resemblance between his own and Floyd’s powerlessness.

On the eighteenth day, when Mr. Soul was to be discharged, Orhan had a splitting headache, and had lost his sense of taste and smell. He, however, keeping these warning signs to himself, went down with Mr. Soul. It was raining. On the muddy driveway earthworms crawled on their bellies. Holding aloft an umbrella borrowed from one of the guards, Orhan helped Mr. Soul to the car. Ma’am Rose was sat in the back with a spray of cut flowers in her hands.

She wound the window down slightly and said aloud from behind her face mask:

“Orhan, you look pale. Have yourself tested before you come home! Give us a buzz if it’s positive; we will make sure that you get treatment in a hospital which is affordable.” She pressed herself back against the seat and added with a louder but sweeter tone: “Ah, yes don’t forget to say your prayers and read Sura Yassin.”

Then she turned to Mr. Soul, handed over the flowers: “Soul, thank God you’re coming home alive. I’ve donated a huge sum to the Mosque to schedule a cow sacrifice now that God has spared your life. Alhamdulillah’ All praise belongs to Allah!”