But I Dream of an Epiphany

“Stelly is publishing their last issue of the year, on lockdown memories. I think I should write something… but what do I write about, Rosh?

“Hmmm… I don't know.”

“Oh! Write about video calls!” said Rosh, as her video got stuck for the 1938th time that hour.

At 2 a.m. that morning, I had an epiphany. Video calls truly have been the highlight of my year. Spending 6 months of the lockdown with my grandparents, I would video call my parents and sister nearly every night. Regular chats with aunts, uncles and cousins along with failed attempts at a zoom party with the extended family have been part of the game as well! Although every call during those monotonous days in lockdown was exactly the same, they were something I looked forward to. The usual- what did you cook? Who swept the house today? Which Netflix show did you finish?

Oh, and we mustn't forget the semicolon of phone conversations - “then?”, “aur batao..." and the imploring silence that follows, leaving us hoping that some topic in this endless world would come up but it would inevitably come around to, “How's the situation there? Any new cases?”

When I further analyse the situation, the year would have been miserable without these low-quality video calls. Imagine going months without meeting loved ones, not even getting to see or speak to them. Woah! These were the calls that have the potential of turning the worst of days to a better one instantly. Knowing that people are in the same state as you is oddly reassuring. Knowing that you're not alone in this unproductive lockdown forges a bond stronger than most. Talking about chores and the best way to clean the house may have been my illustration of the age-old saying: ‘If life gives you lemons, make lemonade” (or maybe don't, you would have to wash the extra dishes).

Video calls happened to be the greatest boon of technology that I realised and appreciated only this year.

But this technologically cursed world does have its shortcomings. As literature students reading Jane Austen for class, we were wooed by the Victorians and yearned to write letters to our peers. Something more heartfelt and special than sitting in the bathroom and typing a message filled with errors or just sending a lazy voice note. Just the idea of someone taking the time and writing to me is so special. This year, I got my first letter around the time I was ready to cry with the sheer pressure I was under. I remember opening it at my desk and reading it near the window. I was surprised at how accurately my mind conjured up my friend's voice while I read her words. I could see that the person behind the paper, the handwriting showing it all - a little out of touch with the practice, aesthetic nevertheless.

When I sat down to reply to the letter, the pen felt alien in my rusted hand. I used a fountain pen, hoping to add to the immeasurable beauty of a letter. Random thoughts that sat at the back of my head presented itself so seamlessly and accurately on the paper; it was bewildering. It was almost as if the letter was writing itself, and I was merely the tool through which the action was done. Was I a poet?

At this point I knew that some part of Latha ma’am's wisdom had reached me, some aspect of Plato and Sidney had implicitly embedded itself in me. Never before had I thought so deeply about literature or given it the importance it deserved, despite being a literature student myself.

The ability to transform, influence and evolve only lies in art.

I had this epiphany only this year, attending classes online and struggling to focus.

What timing.

However turbulent the year was, it still had its highlights. This year was a stage each one of us had to pass through to reach a little closer to life. Maybe. The necessary pain, to achieve the catharsis at the end.

After all, it's all about catharsis in the tragic drama of our collective lives.

Aliya Fathima Sheriff

19/UELA/046