The drama of death, much like the exaggerated social flashpoints of births and weddings, has been diminished. Like the rest of us, it has become socially distant too
Civilizations have been torn asunder by grotesque invasions, wars have spawned killing fields, natural disasters have wreaked havoc, terrorism has terrorized, crimes have been triggered at gunpoint… And the dreadful crunch of numbers has invariably followed, documented and/or speculated upon, reducing legions to decimal points. But in the not-so-brief evolution of humankind, never has an ever- spiking death tally been thrust in our faces every single moment, like now.
There is something unnerving about an exponential count. This is not a kind of stock market streak that chases us down in a bull run; this has death staring us in the face. The numbers, the death tolls, are everywhere, sneaking up on you at all odd times. Apps, tickers, newspaper headlines, social media engagements, addresses by heads of state, bulletins drafted by health organizations, you name it. It’s so bad that if you start reading a “feel good" report on a laptop to take your mind off the rising body count, a “live numbers" pop-up bamboozles its way into the middle of the screen to disarm you completely. And by the time you are done scrutinizing the story of hope, the number has already gone up.
In France, AFP journalist Marlowe Hood had a close shave with the virus at the end of March, but managed to fight it off. In the aftermath, he wrote Love and Fear of Dying in the Time of Coronavirus, in which a couple of sentences sum up the viral macrocosm: “History will recognize a pre- and post-coronavirus world, and right now we are in the twilight zone between the two. The choices we make now—as individuals and nations—will determine whether our species thrives or simply survives."
Whether we thrive or exist on the edge, the unthinkable has happened. The drama of death, much like the exaggerated social flashpoints of births and weddings, has been diminished. Like the rest of us, it’s become socially distant too. What’s more, death—and , by extension, closure—is now eerily virtual.
It hit home when I attended the memorial service of my last surviving grandmother on a Zoom session. Normally, there would have been family, friends, neighbours gathered together in person; there would be shaking of hands and hugs and somatic gestures. Now it was happening on a computer screen split into squares, each fronting a face or two. As more people joined, the squares and faces got smaller, till some of them were barely recognisable. What straightaway struck me was how the collective foremost thought was whether or not the telecom connection would stay alive for those 45 minutes. Some complained their audio wasn’t working, some said their video was blurred, a few logged out because they couldn’t see or hear. It almost seemed like a functional operation.
Some years ago, I was on a flight with a bunch of other journalists. As it slid into take-off mode and started accelerating on the runway, one of them, sitting right behind me, suddenly broke down. I turned around at the sound of her sobs. The woman sitting next to her tried comforting her, but her tears wouldn’t stop till the plane was airborne. Later, she explained why. “I have this heightened fear of flying—crazy, right, considering I fly all the time? Every single time, during take-off, I am convinced I won’t come out of this alive."
I have a strange feeling she will not be as fearful of flights when and if the pandemic recedes. A moribund fellowship has emerged: I can count on my fingertips when conversations have not had a sepulchral insertion that went “… and if I come out of this alive". Almost everyone I know has confessed they have toyed with intimations of mortality at some point or the other in the age of corona. We’ve shared a few laughs over the prospect of dying.
Then, the other day, a lawyer friend told me even those below 30 were drawing up wills and trying to get “their affairs in order". Just in case.
In a 2011 panel discussion on “Is there an afterlife?" (available on YouTube), the moderator asked (one of the speakers) Christopher Hitchens—this was after Hitchens was diagnosed with cancer and sometime before he passed away—“Christopher, how are you feeling?"
“Well, I’m dying," he replied in his usual flamboyant and polemicist style. “But so are you." And he laughed.
I was in deep wonderment of his matter-of-factness vis-à-vis the Grim Reaper. Today, I think that’s what has rubbed off on to most of us. Of course, Hitchens possessed a towering brusqueness, but we at least have a handle on a sense of reconciliation to the coronavirus numbers game: whether one will end up as a subtraction or just another addition to the final score.
Hindsight is 20/20, but real time isn’t, observed Marlowe Hood in his piece I had dwelt on earlier. “The virus toyed with my body, and messed with my mind."
In 2020, my own foresight says our messed up minds will, paradoxically, be more comfortable with the Grim Reaper hovering around like a shadow, even as we stay alive to do the math.
Sushmita Bose is a journalist, editor and the author of ‘Single In The City’.
Click here to read the Mint ePaperLivemint.com is now on Telegram. Join Livemint channel in your Telegram and stay updated
