How did writing happen during a tumultuous time like the pandemic? The world changed all of a sudden when humans were like antelopes caught in the headlight, to begin with. Caught in the maze of lockdowns, restricted movements and work from home, people were facing the tectonic changes in their new compulsion. How did people adapt to it?
Solitude was daunting and distressing at the very minimum. How do we face in this time the most intimidating figure of our lives—our innermost selves? We as humans are essentially insecure with hidden angst, inadequacies, conflicts and stupidities. Facing solitude and surviving this strange world was a challenge, more difficult to answer than Henry Bordeux’s simplistic formulation. As per him when there is an apocalypse around the corner, half will rush to church and a half will indulge in hedonistic excesses.
In reality, all humans became despondent and nearly half of them had mental issues in this frightening world. Fear and uncertainty can uncannily be as frightening as death itself. The pandemic was lengthening out and was becoming a boring apocalypse. How did writers negotiate with this frightening solitude? Were they alone? Yes, they were. But in another sense, they were not alone. Jean-Paul Sartre had said, “If you are lonely when alone, you are in bad company.” Writers had to imagine and tell their stories. Then solitude didn’t remain lonesomeness and despondency was saved from the brink of hopelessness.
There was an outpouring of poems, short stories and prose from most authors. But when there was an upsurge of writing everywhere, the publishing industry was facing its existential crisis. Most writings probably had to wait for a better time. The writers on their own had to choose one road when they faced two pathways. Will they write at all when the situation is still unfolding or will they observe longer for the phenomenon to unfold? Will they write regardless of the instant gratification of publication? Maybe some never ever will be published. If the theme was pandemic it was still evolving and understanding was so sparse to parse them into stories. Other themes were difficult to concentrate on when one was in the midst of the pandemic.
Just when they thought they understood the meaning of life in the pandemic in some sense, new crises emerged from time to time. The parameters of decoding life changed with departures and suffering all around. The meaning of life changed altogether. But there were two epiphanies. The first one was if time was the trouble, writing was the cure, perhaps. With more thinking, new meanings also unravelled. The second one was the writer could be a key to the opening of the lock on the door that period created. But like in life, every choice a writer makes forecloses multitudes of possibilities and resultantly, writing will have to happen with regret.
When you are living through this strange experience of pandemic, will any theme do? But it seemed difficult to write about anything else when the turbulence was raging. It was no less worrying that the pandemic plot could be too soon and too thin. It was compounded by the daunting feeling that a life of corrosive isolation, monotony and quarantine could drive away readers who precisely wanted to escape it.
Pandemics and plagues have been plot staples of literature. But it is always difficult to draw inspiration from them. There is a near absence of noteworthy fiction in response to the Spanish flu compared to World War I in its quick aftermath. Perhaps, the flu eventually drops out of ‘cultural memory’ as quickly as it came.
Fortunate were those who had a story in mind other than the pandemic but were low on time. The time and solitude provided by this event were used by them in giving shape to the story. Equally lucky were the writers who were midway through their writing. They were in some kind of right clime to complete them.
We may have to wait for those kinds of works which take a longer time to gestate. Nonetheless, we will have to tell our stories meanwhile. Writers will knit together stray instances carefully salvaged from the past and present to make meaningful stories. But as Eliot said, “The end of our exploring will be/ to arrive at where we started/ and know the place for the first time.” Finally, that is what both life and writing are all about.
(Views are personal)
Satya Mohanty
Former Secretary, Government of India
satya_mohanty@rediffmail.com